At the Bus Stop

Someone will see me, my sheet-dirtied hair
knotted up and the same button-down
I arrived in (unwrinkled-
I folded it up just in case),
and curl their lip. A common whore
they’ll mutter, with the sin
in their speech
dripping off their tongue. I run my hand
down my neck to make sure
I remembered all of me
left in his bedside table.
Three chains with four charms.
Trinity +1.

Someone will want me to tell
them all I learned from the moon’s
midnight lessons. Not much,
I’ll say.
A vague pedestrian response is propriety.
But to say the truth, nothing
at all.

I’m getting a little nervous.
The bus isn’t on the streetscape
and there’s a chance I got the hands
on my watch all wrong, fractioning
the centrifugal minutes in uneven
slots of time.
I reek of middle-class cologne
and the scent is making me dizzy.
I’m starting to worry this isn’t my stop.

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4 thoughts on “At the Bus Stop

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