Guarded eyes behind bus shelter glass
freckled with bird shit watching
the afternoon traffic pass,
silently conjuring curses towards
the vehicles weather hasn't
yet tattooed orange
like the stains on their knuckles
and gums and their clothes,
just as smudged as the ads
for fast food and car loans
that carpet the concrete
with the sand and the slush
and the yesterday hopes
that today didn't touch.
One more deep breath;
exhale and exhaust
swirling together
to freeze into frost.
As pocketed fingers curl
to keep warm you think
"Today could have been anything."
When the driver's bad day
and bus radio songs
make seven short miles
seem thirty miles long,
it's home to unplug the
present with drinks
or pictures of when you were young.
Swear that maybe a new town
or a job that you love
would dust off this mess to
which you loathe to belong.
Or someone to be with at home,
something on TV you'd actually watch
and not just use for noise
so you don't feel alone
to the tune of the ticking wall clock.
The penumbrae of objects you
dare to call home stretch
out through your darkened room
as you're guided by flickers
of reruns to toothbrush
then sleep before life can resume.
But as head hits the pillow
remember each blind
can be raised to let in
light and the sound of robin who'll sing
"As cold as it is,
though the days seem so short here
tomorrow can be anything."
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