Jacob Ian DeCoursey

Lines Intersecting as Seen from a Bus Stop

It’s 9 am
I’m waiting

A gray February overcast
tints the bus stop
and all surrounding things

Buildings lurch
through frozen sun
between statuesque
pedestrians while
the wind turns
a girl’s hair sideways

That same fucking sedan
beeps three times
while speeding past as
the pavements burst again
with cold pigeons like steam

A man and woman press through
and the woman is screaming

She hurls a whiskey bottle
at his head and
the bottle shatters
against the street

A truck blares its horn
and rolls over the glass

always is such a short time
when we live so long,
sings a distant ambulance

I cover my ears as
the 35 arrives

The doors slide open
and nobody is driving and
the windows are crowded
with demons


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