Dessicated Stubble, Grown Out of Shape
Dessicated stubble, grown out of shape.
Scratch the face. Stretch the arms.
So inaugurates the morning of the day.
Coffee on. Eyes rubbed.
Cigarette lit and inhaled.
Soil embracing the intellect.
Miles and miles of recollections,
dry as dust,
glimmer like unintended boys starting fires.
I watch the hands on the clock
ticking their way to needing to leave this house.
sh--, shower and shave.
Clean clothes and underarm protection.
A surge of cologne and it's generation
meeting generation once again.
Bus grinding along city street.
Clowns inside. Clowns outside.
Everybody hemmed in by their
headphones stuck in ears.
Though I sit at your side, on the ride,
and our bodies are making contact,
I don't know you and you don't know me.
We stipulate that it remains that way.
Arriving. Pulling string to make the bell noise.
Getting off bus.
Down-town void of attention.
Merging foot traffic of tedious populace
shoving eyes away from recognition of one another.
We are all together engrossed in our
own vulnerable persuasions.
I see the doors to the lobby.
Office building summoning attention.
Stand ten metres from the door.
Smoke another cigarette.
Nine hours from now I'll reverse this process.
Every calendar day it's the same f-g nonsense.
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