To and from work. A miserably boring poem by Emily Billings
A small town girl walks the streets of Jersey
The smell makes her long for the fresh manure and road kill of home
She walks
Pink earmuffs worn in late April
The hill
The hill will try to kill me today
But it will not succeed
I'm frrrrce. Roar
Grapes and the path train for the morning commute
I read
Before I know it
33rd last stop
The sound of horn honking
Sirens
And Scientologists and Roman Catholics saying each other is going to hell
Tourists making me walk on the street
All wearing the same shirts
I now hate green
I arrive
I work
I leave
hot fresh roasted peanuts
the lights from times square
the smell of the hot dog vendors
Pamphlets of the great scientology and roman catholic debate strewn across the ground
A pigeon on the bust of Golda Meier
A pretzel, snapple, and a smile for six bucks.
33rd street again. Crowded cars.
The smell of Jersey again.
Death in a scent
A random potato on the ground
garbage everywehre
From the flood
From the lazy school kids
who are yelling at each other
because they can't walk across the street
17 year old boys wearing 30 year old men's pants
And walking like they need their leg amputated.
The old neighbour who calls me sweetie
sitting on his porch
waving and smilng
I arrive home
I go to my room
I need to clean
fucking cats
The smell makes her long for the fresh manure and road kill of home
She walks
Pink earmuffs worn in late April
The hill
The hill will try to kill me today
But it will not succeed
I'm frrrrce. Roar
Grapes and the path train for the morning commute
I read
Before I know it
33rd last stop
The sound of horn honking
Sirens
And Scientologists and Roman Catholics saying each other is going to hell
Tourists making me walk on the street
All wearing the same shirts
I now hate green
I arrive
I work
I leave
hot fresh roasted peanuts
the lights from times square
the smell of the hot dog vendors
Pamphlets of the great scientology and roman catholic debate strewn across the ground
A pigeon on the bust of Golda Meier
A pretzel, snapple, and a smile for six bucks.
33rd street again. Crowded cars.
The smell of Jersey again.
Death in a scent
A random potato on the ground
garbage everywehre
From the flood
From the lazy school kids
who are yelling at each other
because they can't walk across the street
17 year old boys wearing 30 year old men's pants
And walking like they need their leg amputated.
The old neighbour who calls me sweetie
sitting on his porch
waving and smilng
I arrive home
I go to my room
I need to clean
fucking cats