or
THE HEAD OF CONGRESS
Four-thirty in the a.m. and I find myself once again standing at the 401 stop, corner of Rochester and Davie, waiting for the night bus to take me home.
WHY ARE YOU STARING
at me, who's staring at the ground, who's innocuous.
I AM A MOLE
but I can't burrow into concrete. I try and dodge my shadow, more like a sullen dwarf sulking under me, small, round, quite exact and fat. Straight underneath a streetlight is a nice place to be
SOMETIMES COMFORT ME, BUT ONLY JUST
No one touches this little pool of me and my waiting.
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