Poetry of routine: The Crossing

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blows of routine, mourned

dent in chest and ache of lemons

squeezed to drink, to refill

 

honking horns, vrooming

breath savoring the phase of wait

men stewing under their noses

 

galloping gait, impatient

kicking the pebbles and people marching

the paradox of them coming to leave

 

a busy crossing, a musing

curlicues of civilization on interrogative hooks

moving, though not looking back for once

 

©Written Frames, 2019