8286. IN A BREEZE

IN A BREEZE

This isn't regimental thinking, as

the wheat and chaff of thought and

mind must go their separate ways.

Here is where life parts from death,

and beings converge. 

-

The little blue car that kid puts here;

he walks away to his final meal,

or so it seems. A saunter unlike

any I've seen before  -  I think they

just grow them brash and prideful

now. But he is nothing to me, nor

his silly blue car, festooned with

stickers of something, and noise.

-

Let him go as I retreat, and may he

never come back  -  to cross my path 

or soil my world again. This is all

aftermath  - the world I must live in

is the dregs of the pit of the foul of

the stench. Grace has gone, and its

last available bus, just now, is

leaving the station as well.