03 December 2015


Rust eats the bus
         an incurable illness.
Hanging street lights
         cocked broken heads in morbid kind of merriment
framed in the worn dusty dusk  
of this recycled winter night.
In the stalled line of cars
outlined figures of
         every one,
         and each waiting
for a ride to something:
And here, right next to me,
        is Someone--
        who is everyone--
and doesn't each someone
long to go back to,
        or to move on from,
this thing to the next thing right now--
if only just to get away,
to flee the unseen revolution backwards
      to right where we were
I wasn't going to say anything
seeing our
      self-made urban blight
yet it comes to me again--
sunsets are supposed
  to be stunning
  and I believe
       though we don't notice
even the land of Mars
hears our sighs.
~ A Charity Johnson 2015