Happy the man in OrchideenStraat is OK Sat inside safe at home then after with sugar songs and troubled fingers coffee-ridden, trembling as the slow formica kitchen shook the night off.
Post epilepsy soap show rattled cup and saucer downed and snapped back from slumber by a hissing TV to one eye open sofa sideways.
Glad it wasn’t you tonight caught clamping onto that drizzled post of the striped pedestrian crossing waiting for a safe green to cross you; wasn’t you caught captive in the emerald flicker of bricks of bright disturbing triggers that switched your brain to flex and strain your nervous system to breaking.
Some of us almost sat on his arms to stop his fist breaking his own face open took his glasses, unstrapped him from that expensive bag that sat trapped by his shoulder in spasm in a guttering puddle of oiled rain and frothing spittle.
And glad it wasn’t you
cradled by your stranger, who stripped in the rain to minus the coat that warmed the spasms of the clenched spine on the ground.
Or the man from 36 Hertogstraat who bolted for a blanket or the guy in an â€˜87 Capri who called the ambulance whose signal yellow angels thanked us for being people as they strapped him to the epilepsy gurney.
And glad that every single person there was there all glad it wasnâ€™t them and happy the man from OrchideenStraat is OK.