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Shelter |
Hands in pockets, pacing the concrete
trying to make warmth out of motion.
It is a bitter cold before sunrise
as swirling wind massages my scalp
underneath the hood of this winter coat whose draw string
is looser than a gossip's lips.
Oh, the secrets this bus stop could tell
of the derelicts and early bird commuters bracing themselves
against the metal pole like a second shadow.
A guy who never blinks sits in the confession booth of a
plexiglass shelter,
huddled in prayer and puffing on a foot-long cigar,
ceremonial incense in memory of a forever night of sin.
His whispers are understood
perhaps only by the stars soon to disappear in the daylight.
The headlights of the bus I have been waiting for approach,
and with it comes the opportunity
to thaw my bones and say grace to sunrise
copyright 2018
Mark
States |
