Monday, May 30, 2011

The Bus at Night

The drink of the night --
caressed and stumbling.
Slurred meth and lost teeth.
I watch the honey pour out
on hand tattoos and missed stops.
The eyeliner smudged, the eyeliner
questioning like language.

A body of winkles, a face
of aged crevices, the weathered
blankets below the eyes --
those shallow creatures of quiet remorse.

A man enters the bus, removes his bags,
and puts on a very large, black mustache.
He stands and looks at his reflection
in the glass.

Another pours whiskey into a half
empty coke can. The bus
stinks of the stuff.

A body shakes violently impatient.
She carries a bouquet of flowers
with her everywhere.

The scent of her fabric
stays with me through the night.
The weave of her skin:
braille to my fingers.

Creative Commons License
This work by Scott Stewart is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

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