Image borrowed from Yahooi see a man in the second story window, red brick building, across the street from the bench, i sit, waiting for the 7:45 bus. it's not that i can't mind my own business, but he is there every day & i know him only as wife beater.
& it's not just the stain white shirt stretched across his girth, but the words, his words that bullhorn across the distance. he treats her like a dog, not that i have anything against dogs, or think they should get hurt. & the banging...banging...banging...crashes across the asphalt.
(are you getting pissed yet?)
his day old beard, shimmers greasy, as he leaves, chest puffed like he's king of the world, locking the door behind him, from the outside. smiling...smiling...and it may be bad but i am wishing i was driving as he crosses the crosswalk. he says good morning as he waits next to me.
& she appears in the now slid up window, eyes hollow black holes, sucking all the color from the day, except the cigarette she sucks to a butt, then flicks. tumbling end over end, it leaves smoke written confessions, hanging in the air, dreams deferred, dissipating.
she was pretty once, you can tell, a trophy beneath the tarnish & she had hope once, but hitched a ride on the wrong star streaking across the night sky, only to find it was a busted piece of space junk plummeting. back then she was someone, before he took that too.
& then the window is empty, the bus here, & i am just glad to catch a glimpse of her because one day i won't. she will either wake up or not get up, again. maybe tomorrow. maybe the next day. he boards in front of me & our bus pulls away.
Brian Miller
Posted over on his site Way Station One
Listed as #88 over on Magpie Tales 42
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