Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Who’s that man in the black coat? He always gets off the 11 p.m bus and whenever we’re two ***** brown and ripped seats away I can distinguish the smell of smoke in his hair and the rain on his eyeglasses Every time he sits down two ***** brown ripped seats away from me the yellow neon lights stuck on the roof that he has to avoid by bending, catch the rings in his beat up calloused hands I can see his fingers holding an overflowing moleskin notebook and I am yet to approach him about his name when all that fills my conscious is the question concerning the stack of papers in his hand. p.e.n
0
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC
strangers on a bus
Who’s that man in the black coat? He always gets off the 11 p.m bus and whenever we’re two ***** brown and ripped seats away I can distinguish the smell of smoke in his hair and the rain on his eyeglasses Every time he sits down two ***** brown ripped seats away from me the yellow neon lights stuck on the roof that he has to avoid by bending, catch the rings in his beat up calloused hands I can see his fingers holding an overflowing moleskin notebook and I am yet to approach him about his name when all that fills my conscious is the question concerning the stack of papers in his hand. p.e.n
philosober
Written by
Lebanese
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem