The
imported, bags collected, depart.
Through
searing rain and hostile fits from heaven
This bus
weary, packed, wonders
What were
the cooling towers for?
As we
squander cash for food
And traverse
the corrugated bridge
Where the
icy rain grates the rust,
Back to
penned seats.
There are
flat plains and distant hills veiled
As we make
out faces in the putrid stains
That scatter
the concrete underpass.
A kinder
life is forming with
Jimmy’s
face, my face and yours.
And still,
as the sky paints darker,
I come to
liken this place to our nostalgia
That lingers
in future memories.
H.E
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