His head lifts from visible noises,
Spying glazed eyes and faces as
Vacant as the seat beside him,
Faux-leather carrying mixed scents:
Plastic, artifice, rain water.
Loneliness.
A lurch he never saw coming,
A heart he never left running.
And a world filled with bent walls,
Shattered rain, and half-heard screams.
And a bus seat that still remains vacant.
That turned out much more grim than I had anticipated.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Faux...
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