The dwarf at the bus stop dressed in his camouflage.
Trying to escape from a fantasy.
He was on his way to upper earth.
He toked on his joint as for the bus he waited.
Had icicles on the tips of his beard, or maybe just drips of the tea that he'd dribbled.
He wasn't young, nor was he old.
He sure as hell looked very cold.
My bus came, carried me away.
Off into the fantasy of another great day.
The sun gleams redundantly, she's not warming the world.
Today's missing Fahrenheit are making my toes curl.
(c) Livvi