Bus Stop

When it stops

the box goes silent.

Though, silent was what goes

when silence is what’s boxed in.

 

And before the piston trigger

had squeezed itself into

the dynamics

of a hush,

flyers smacked

other

colored flyers

and the stale dormitory light

sketched a path

away from them.

 

The writer’s wrote on the bags of

bag ladies and

kissers

dreamt of dreamers;

distracted by the

road’s troubles.

 

Inside wool hats,

nested earbud’s

stumble

and

bump:

BA DA DUMP DA DUMP

 

Tiny static symphonies

resuscitate   

this bus’s heart;

beating stations of indoor motion

incite

a tumbling ambience

which aches inside the belly

of a laundromat.  

 

 A brown paper bag sloshes

against a man’s chin;

microphoning

the caterpillar movements that

scuff-up against it.

 

passenger stands beside him

and beside newspaper trash

which moonlights

urban sneakers

graffitiing the dark. 

 

Those are someone’s nephews,

I told him,

with our cold bent foreheads

pressed against a window.

 

A window where ghosts

appear to us as

stalled fingers on the glass;

telling stories of

where they’d failed.

 

And if we dared

to write like them

again,

at some point,

our minds might

falter

quietly.

 

Like mental bumps

on the muffled road, 

we might think

our ears had popped

and find ourselves gripped

inside the woes of

an aspirin bottle.

 

When the mad city night becomes

the window’s blink

with laughter,

and we carry on

beyond our domes

to the back allies of

the soul.

Where stop signs

hold steady against the bowling sun

and the night,

in giving everything 

it has in this world

to

stop

is screaming.

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