Notice.

This is my two weeks notice
given a day in advance
that I won't be back again
and I won't be picking up my mail here either
once more I'd like to say
that I am on my way
and I'll be looking back the whole time
to see if you're coming to bring me home

I like your eyes
and the way you smile at me
at least I think its me
it could be anything
but I still pretend
that you can see
my originality
how bad I want your attention
I keep looking back the whole time
to see if you're coming to bring me home

This is a notice
I'm leaving by the bed
I know its last minute
but there's something to be said
for being pragmatic and practical
I can't stand to rise and fall anymore
I'm leaving you my two weeks notice
six days too late
i'll be looking back the whole time
to see if you're coming to bring me home

Flower.

Beautiful she blooms, soaking up the bright sunshine.

Lonesome she sits there.

I make up stories in order to feel like I have a life.

Late.

There is always that elderly man
sat mumbling profanities while
the white skin of his knuckles is stretched thin
across his frail bones, clutching the orange pole.

And that young woman, with the cotton scarf
and ornately decorated clothing, with headphones
loud enough to detect the bass and constant beat but
too quiet to be a bother to others.

Such as the middle aged man with glasses and briefcase
a book resting in his lap, a tie resting against his book
his white shirt entirely buttoned other than one at the top, his
bald patch scarcely hidden with creative combing and wax.

Snd those retired women, wearing cardigans and fur coats
resenting their children for having bred children who are
undeserving and unappreciative and who don’t carry
the family name with pride and promise.

And that girl, with mussed hair and smudged makeup
who’s uniform is creased and eyes are rimmed red. Who
“missed” the early bus, full to the brim with people who
misunderstand her. Mistreat her. Increase her heart rate and slow her footsteps.

That bus left without her and with it, it took her pride and dignity,
and so she took the late bus. As did the elder and the ornate woman and
the book-reading man and cardigan wearing gossips.
As did black men and white women, Christians and
Muslims, and children and babies and the pregnant, carrying new
life that will one day too share what they all share.

Within the confines of the overheated vehicle, with plastic chairs and the stop bell slightly
off key, they all ride the late bus.

Anagram.

Keyhole window -

What could be inside?

Much like little Alice,

I've sipped the vial.

Now I find I'm

Smaller than a rich man's dreams.

If I could only climb

The tallest tree

to see.