Commutes

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.