Yellow rubber-coating ‘round The support pole Rattles as we leave the town. En masse we stroll East to where the planes touch down. Not a soul Would break the silence then.
In whispers two old women spoke Of things they missed, Sharing in an inside-joke About who kissed Martha out where they would smoke. The brakes hissed: Marking another stop.
I first noticed the graffiti marks On the walls Of the tunnel passing by the parks. The driver calls, With muffled voice, the main landmarks And protocols For our endless journey.
Eastward to London we kept, Winding through The Thornhill lot, vacant except For one sky-blue Nissan Sentra there which slept Without a clue Where it’s owner went.
The heaviness of morning fell On the hills Which rolled past where the people dwell. Solemn chills Began to fill the bus’ shell. The people still Cared not to waste their breath.
Photo by Jessica Schrock
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