As the street car persistently creaks in the distance, I lay at the car
stop, back pack under head, book held loosely in my and all the while
the starts have blanketed the South.
Easy to wait, waiting for fate? For a ride, for a light, for a
night? For things that rhyme?
Cement that crunches beneath me under my shoes, but above the
sweet grass.
Tall am I against the traffic, but puny compared to the electric
bus that is rolling on.
Matty, age 16