Bus Stop

This day full of weight,

it seems I wore these iron hoofed hills for shoes.

I trudged with perpetual purpose

up bent and painful streets

to nowhere.

I was a cursed tourist,

someone strung a camera

like a collar round my neck,

and I took pictures

of all the saddest things I could find;

the Chinese girls

trying on too bright kimonos,

the men shouting at their wives,

the old man swaying in the urinal,

and a couple madly in love.

This day was too perfect,

the people put out like sun-umbrellas

on the sun lined streets,

slipping into cool glasses of life.

It was just too good

and I was crushed by it,

and sat there on a bus stop bench,

thinking to move,

thinking another day

would come by here soon.


Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014


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