Someone brushes past,
motioning me to take a seat
next to the man with eyes only
half lit like a light bulb that has
lost its glow.
I take in the stale air,
sound of babies and
middle aged housewives rambling on,
pinging off my ears
into the musty California breeze.
We come to a barreling halt
I leap forward grabbing a metal pole;
shock reaches through my chewed off finger nails
to the tip of my curved spine.
I take my seat again,
but I am accompanied by nobody to my left or right this time.
Stops go by,
gentle jolting becomes routine.
I feel myself pick up my feet and
hustle towards the accordion black door--
another day in transit.
Sundays at the Lake
It illuminates from the sky
like a child’s eyes when she see’s
a freshly baked apple pie
it beats down on me
causing floods of sweat to
waterfall down my back
and drain my energy till
I am as tired as a wilting
only half of summer is gone
I beg for the big fire ball
in the sky to go away
and play hide and seek with the clouds
one day I will miss it in the winter
when streets are soaked with
tears from the clouds and cold
shivers go down my spine every time
I step outside where I find the