Too much beer
Not enough pussy
And a nagging at his mind
That he is not and never will be
Enough
So he slumps there,
Bus-stop-waiting,
Holding his breath every
Once in a while
To see what it is
Like
To imagine the blackness
He'd stare up at without
Knowing or maybe knowing
Until his eyes rot
In their sockets
At least it would be quiet
No heart pounding because
Of too many cigarettes
No bratty kid wailing in
The backroom
No thought
No nothing
As the bus pulls up he
Scratches out his cigarette
On the concrete and sticks
The unconsumed portion
In his front pocket
Here's my bus stop haiku. Based on my last wait at 9th east and 3900 south.
ReplyDeleteOh weird squinting man.
Why are you talking to me?
I'm trying to read.
excellent last image
ReplyDeleteI too love that last image--also the third stanza.
ReplyDeleteCigarettes can be quite expensive with over-consumption. Good for him. He'd rather have his lungs rot out than his eyes. (I'm with him on that one)
ReplyDeleteWell observed, SCIAZ.
ReplyDeleteThank you all for your kind comments. I quite like the last stanza too.
You should see this one performed.