Poem at the bus stop
18287 / 50000 words. 37% done!
Grit
Creepy little old man
hair greying at the temples.
He lurks in corners at the bus station
Like raindrops pool in corners of my window.
He sweeps up your discarded cigarette butts
like little treasures found.
His only contact with you,
happens after the fact.
Budding metropolis of cold unyielding concrete.
He has not fallen through the cracks.
He has become the cracks.
Your discarded gum turned black with age
cannot seal him. Cannot make him better.
Lame, no?