blasts the back of a bus like it was
a metal shed. The blossoms have been
nipped off, pressed hard between
thumb and forefinger; establishing
a red juice thumbprint from the petals.
I'm loafing all the time now that the
volition of tasks has slowed
to a murky expanse of morning
into afternoon into the dark by
4:30 pm. The silver radiator
hisses red steam with the radio
on. The trees are almost stripped
bare by the wind, even. People used to
thumb a ride, wander in consternation,
do battle with evil spirits, that sort of stuff.
Nowadays, it's buddy-buddy chats, status
updates from the urine temple,
and a light dose of canker for the
tongue's laborious excursions.