Two days after,
when they'd cleared away the mangled
meaningless twist of metal,
familiar red paint smeared with oily black,
its intended destination still proclaimed,
I passed the place on business
and walked more slowly
avoiding the eyes of others
in case they imagined in my eyes
or I in theirs,
some falsity, some failure of the mind,
some lack of the appropriate emotion,
whatever that might be -
almost a guilt acquired
in some complicity

In the gutter, a glove, brown, damp, like a hand,
lying on its back, its fingers slightly curled
as if in mute request
for a reason

but to whom, now, to return it?

Michael Shepherd

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0013-aftermath-london-july-7-2005/