The forklift driver grabs his steaming lunch, into the thermos,hot soup on a cold day,
trudges out the door, the half-block to the bus stop, graffiti-smeared and stickered,
and stands, dragon-breath glowing dirty orange in the light of the rising sun,
staring down to and past that busier street, looking for what may come or not.
The bus grumbles, squeals and pishes to a stop and he alights, head down.
A mother knows the schedule, knows the man’s shape, sees him ascend the kneeling
stairs and knows they are running late–she, still in slippers and house-coat,
scarf and hat against the waking cold as she drags bundled child down steps
and they walk, a different half block to a different bus stop--an empty corner--
and stand, bodies cut in half by light, by the now-white sun peaking over roof-tops
as the yellow bus hits the manhole cover, rattling windows in the coffee shop.
The first-pot maker drips his streaming hunch into the terminus, not new, in an old way
fudges on the floor, half-stare and half-not, empty-city-bleared and crackered,
and lands, fairly death, growing qwerty-strange in the blight of despising fun,
glaring frown through the past that his ears meet, looking for what may come or not.
His rust trundles, squeaks the dishes, stew-a-pot and he delights, dead-crowned.
His mother knew his schedule, knows a man’s shape, saw him transcend the keening
stares and knows his un-stunning spate–she still, in the earth. A mouse-goat
scoffed and spat aghast, and waking, old as she, dragged sundered wild brown pipes
and they talk, a different life-stock to a stiff, errant fuss-fop–an empty crooner
and band. Noddies come in half the night, buy the now, write-son speaking oven goof-ups
and a mellow fuss splits the man. Hole-lover, prattling, winnows in the coffee shop.