i blow smoke from my mouth in a certain line
my lips pressed against the filter, the future of my death.
i know.
i know the risks.
my eyes feel dirty and my skin feels
worn through someone else.
young girls in new cars drive by without looking
and the pussy hunting jungle beat of
a brown boy's black jeep blares at me
roars across the median like thunder,
like it wants to eat me.
i wonder if he ever had coal in his stocking.
i am waiting for the bus,
picking at weeds
and the dirt on my shoes, pushing my hair
from my damp forehead,
applying chapstick and sweating into my shirt.
the bus arrives furiously, buzzing tires and screeching as the doors
open to swallow me, bring me to one more place i do not belong.
copyright EAK 1998
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