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Aug 2017
I focus on each individual blade of grass:
like little knives, they shine
in the winter sunlight.

I focus on the traffic
as I wait for my bus and I wonder:
where are these people going?

I focus on the pavement:
faded black, like coal or *** ash.
Little white dots. One, two, three.
I wonder if the pavement was once sharper, more black?
And I wonder why it matters as I
tap tap tap my food lightly, timing each tap
with the beat beat beats of my heart:
like the tick-tock of a wall clock.

I stop tapping.
Time keeps moving, ticking
The blood continues to flow through my body, thump
The traffic continues to flash by, woosh honk, and I wonder:
where are these people going?
Wrote on 26.1.17
Diane
Written by
Diane  25/F/Glasgow
(25/F/Glasgow)   
300
 
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