Walking across the macadam
there are strange intersections in time
where I hope I am really not here
at all, but this is Monday wishful thinking,
the snow falling on the
junkers raggedly lined in the
commuter's lot.
I missed the 8:30
but this bus will probably get me
to hell on time.
The place where I talk
to myself in the ladies' room
mirror, hands swollen, aching.
This is what happens to frivolity,
typing
in a land of
no dreams.
Trudging across the macadam. Oh boy, Your hands are swollen from typing nonstop and my feet ache from being on them for 8-12 hours straight working in surgery where it never stops. You have penned your feelings well and I am glad you shared them. Excellent. Liz
(Self-published. Please contact author directly to order.)
Enter the pages of diaspora in quiet introspection. Bathe your thoughts with subtle humor; synchronize your spirit-sense with history-in-heat; fall headlong with eyes wide open into
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(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Be always safe,
Karen