| *loolaville _poetry | |||||
| 12:27 p.m. As I sit here on the bus, the man in front of me reaches his index finger into his nose and pulls out slowly, wiping what he found on a nearby pole - one we sometimes wrap our hands around to keep from falling. His black, greasy hair is pulled back to a tight pony tail beneath his cap. He has a dark beard and his fingernails are dirty and rough. My friend beside me is talking about a man he met in San Francisco who thinks Garcia is still alive. Maybe because he is, or maybe because this man had one hit too many. Nonetheless, his voice fills my ear with this story, as I watch more people pay and find a seat. Soon the bus roars back onto the road, and the story ends. I shut my eyes and face the window, where the sun shines down on me. It's thick and full; beautiful and bright against my thin eyelids. I see fuzzy red and orange, swarms of yellow and pink. Oh, it's heaven for me, and I don't know I'm on a dirty bus. I can feel the warmth cover my face and chest, like the core of God or the womb of my mother. Hours could be spent here, but the bus halts, and my eyes fly open. |
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