Commutes
In the dim afternoon a spider plays pizzicato on
strings that hang from a hopeless bus shelter.
And the man wonders why he is reduced to this:
to stare at arachnids and wait for public transport that
never…
comes…
Then –
in the bent of steelwork,
the climb of concrete,
the marooned carcasses of insects –
he remembers.
It is because he loves these little intricacies
and he has traded filth and worldliness for jewels
at the Market of Words.