it’s denver in january cold
at the bus stop
there’s a man
in work boots
with a lunch pail
and he looks cold too
his lips pursed
hands in pockets
and there’s a woman
with her two daughters
sitting on the
cold metal
bench
reading them a
story
and there’s a kid
with a baltimore ravens
hat
on backwards
who is pacing
like he’s waiting
for the super bowl
next sunday
there is gum
all over the ground
gum and cigarette
butts
now here comes the blind man
cane in hand
he can’t see me
as i sit here
still
and frozen
does he know
i’m here?
i am some weird caricature
to all of them
lost in my headphones
and underneath my hood
and thom yorke
is going crazy
in my ears
singing my iron lung
they have no idea
he’s whispering
and screaming at me
in the corner
of an asylum
on the other side
of the headphones
he’s desperately singing
with desperation
about desperation
he’s moving me
but he’s not here
there are five other hearts
at this bus stop
waiting to share
the same submarine vessel
to take us to
somewhere else
and it’s cold but not too cold to talk
and i’m off in the asylum
with thom yorke
and i’m twentysomething
in a hoodie
lost in headphones
and as soon as we violently
tug the pull cord
on the bus
and exit
professionally
we will be off to live
our seperate lives together
thom yorke is screaming at me
from some supermarket in england
with his wife
but we are all silent
faceless chess pieces
faced with the same war
but stuck
within our black
and white
spaces
COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013
READ “BLOOD ON THE AMERICAN HIGHWAY”
