I saw a man on the bus.
The same one I see every day. I want his eyes to meet with mine. They don't. I'm not sure why they would and what gain
I would get.
His fist thrusts against the railing post. No pain. Over and over again - it goes.
Clenched skin, powder white.
Blood gets frozen from knuckles, and I'm sure he is ready to fight whatever blossom has invaded his dome. The woman behind him has her own truth. Latte spills on her shoes, 5 minutes away from being late.
Late for a meeting.
Late without a smile.
Where will her heels take her, and how much does she pays for dinner?
I bet money subconsciouly heats her.
The bus is heavy, none empty. Getting ready, there he goes again. Still at it, tormented mind.
I wonder where his money lies... The way his skin is leaving behind - while clumps of jesus paraphernalia fly out of pocket. When was he last saved...
Veins, he cut them out I think. I see none. His face is that of my fathers'
Does his fist pound with the same remorse...?