Train, train, bus is late.
Boiled and delicate in sun,
someone sings. I wait.
Beside greenhouses,
a gold field twinkles, endless.
I think of Steinbeck.
Crowding, reaching out,
nettles have claws here, and eyes.
Is my mind slipping?
I cry, all messy,
happy tears. His words show me
I am not useless.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 6:59 AM UTC
Train, train, bus is late.
Boiled and delicate in sun,
someone sings. I wait.
Beside greenhouses,
a gold field twinkles, endless.
I think of Steinbeck.
Crowding, reaching out,
nettles have claws here, and eyes.
Is my mind slipping?
I cry, all messy,
happy tears. His words show me
I am not useless.
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