rusted
I hate mornings.
The alley and mudtracks and garbage. Running along 12th because I'm always late. Early bird people with little dogs as prisoners. The city opens up at the huge lot, and the wind blows plastic bags and scraps of paper. There's an abandoned shopping cart that's been there since the end of January. Last week there was a baby stroller flipped over the curb. Beer bottles. A flier about the apocalypse and I want to write something funny on it but I can't find the permanent marker in my bag. I bend down and shake the bottles perched on the curb and think about tasting dirty old beer. I think of collecting it and selling it. I could collect everything I see.
It's always gray. No one pays any attention to me.
Sometimes I pray while I wait for the bus.
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