Aug
23
From the relative protection of
a shared bus stop
at least the sky wasn’t
quite so low inside, held
back by timid fluorescence
one lamp stutters apologetically
under the weight of all that winter.
She has lipstick on her teeth as
we trade smiles
that flickering fixture grin that we use
on strangers and
underlings; the one that says
beastly weather, please
don’t bother me
having sprayed my circle with
dialog repellent
up to my nose in
newspaper or novel
it’s inconceivable that
she’s talking to me
but unnerving to think otherwise
you can see she was pretty
once, for about five years
she’s passed that by another decade,
but still taunts her hair to the
same anti-Newtonian physics
Her lover was a bum, her
husband was the same and
the same
nothingness spurted from each and
found her purchase
Stars of rain and headlight
oscillate on the scratched Plexiglas.
The passing of each car
spotlighting her story
After the thread of twenty minutes
played out slow as existence
I watched myself get on the bus
in twenty years.
Beastly weather.
Where’s my horoscope.
Comments
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.