there we sit, waiting
for your dad to pick us up
bus stop pavement
spilling our guts

just like we did
when we used to talk
secrets glistening on the pavement
i don't know you anymore

opening like a mouth
the sun is bright and hot
like a tongue or a ribcage
that i used to know the shape of

spit blood at me and
ask me for advice
let me read the sequel
let me back into your life

If a poet fills his wounds with poetry, will his body become a masterpiece?

quickly the fire truck
jumps from its station
clamoring into traffic
disrupting its flow
like a boulder sat in water
the cars swerve and collect
on the side of the road
only to soon return to their stream
the casual chaos continues
and I wonder what it’s like
to be able to go about routine
when tragedy is occurring
just up the river