Nowhere to be.
The crowd is closing in,
grouping like a stockyard.
Elbows are bumping,
some hand grazed my hip.
The air is getting thicker, and stale.
Breathing, labored.
I’m close to panting.
My palms are sweating, more
than my armpits.
I keep wiping them on
the front of my jeans.
The pocket seams are moistening,
almost damp, like a San Francisco awning.
I try to move forward, then back.
Neither an escape.
I just stand there,
panting, sweating, hands
still brushing my pockets.
Looking for a way out.
Comments
2 Responses to “poem for thursday.”
Leave a Reply
Arjai on July 25th, 2008 12:57 am
I don’t know you, and we are strangers. However, is this post really a poem? I know, ’cause I read your last , non-capitol letters, post. It’s tragedy that you are being paid at all!
Perhaps, living in Flag, is the single reason but, then again, Johnny might just think you’re hot…Sorry if I blew it for you Johnny.
Whatever, it was not a painful experience, except for the so-called poem. Really, can’t you do better? At least you were capable of using the “SHIFT” button, I was worried.
Perhaps, I am being too harsh. Well, I’m not called a punk ass for no reason! BTW, I hope for the best, so please try harder! DC deserves the best effort, like it used to be. Hint, hint!
sf nonnative on August 3rd, 2008 1:12 pm
WOW.Dont you think you’re setting your bar a little high for DrunkenCyclist? It kind of sounds like your just bitter about being turned down as an author on this site. What’s up with ripping on Flag, where are you from, Brooklyn?! Please lady give me a break.
PS Johnny does think Pineapple is really hot and you didnt blow it for him.