Waiting For The 15 on...

There is a couple curled behind me,
hidden in the cocoon of their hoods,
and I can hear the pornographic smack
of their lips over the blaring of whiny
pop-rock in my ears.

(Or maybe that's just the sound of my
loneliness.)

There is a man on the other side of
the street, a nervous rock to his stance. When
he crosses to my bus stop, I see menace and
ill-intent in his eyes. I pull my purse closer
and step away.

(Or maybe that's just the view from my
prejudices.)

There is a rushed stillness hovering in the air,
tasting of rainwater and aching limbs. We are
all tired of this "rat race" and "dollar a day"
folly. I sense the rising action, building towards a
revolutionary climax.

(Or maybe that's just the seductive kiss of
wishful thinking.)

There is dinner on my mind, and what I've missed
on Facebook since I've been out. I think of my (virtual) reality,
of the hopelessness of humanity, of rapture, of religion, of vice,
and of the incessant, insatiable, intimidating need for erotic
satisfaction.

(Or maybe those are just the words I've been told
to think.)

And so I climbed the stairs, up into the bus, and took my seat. I was full to the brim with hopelessness, with angst, and with the mind-numbing truth that this…this really might be all there is.

This is life.