Life, Sliced. Or A Brief Tale At The Bus Stop.
My stick sits limply between my fingers, unlit,
While the world drips from the newspaper
Damp on the synthetic seat, wet from the wait
For the bus which passes every five minutes
Over the road where once there were streams,
From before there was a city named for lions,
That came down from low hills, now grassy verges.
Standing just outside the shelter is a nice notion,
Being the broadminded sort, I don’t mind the water
Splashing on my bald head-
It takes away fractions of the ache splitting my brain
After watching the same reruns again and again.
Perhaps I should never get on the bus at all.
Perhaps I should just sit here and watch the dogs
Play ball, the odd job men from across the border
Fly by on two wheels to fix whatever is broken
For whoever with the means and the couples push
Their prams past Indonesian gardeners tending to verges
That were once green hills from which streams fell.
