Monday, November 2, 2009

1.25


They sit at the bus stop and they wait with their bags.
Three bags.
Five bags.
Bags with wheels, dusty wheels, rolled miles down the dirty LA streets.
Tired bags that slump out their fat sides, lazily protruding out the contents.

He sits there waiting, bags surrounded by flies. Shoes broken at the sole, torn. Toes shamelessly sticking out, thick with callouses.

The bus comes, headed to Pasadena.
The bus comes headed to Santa Monica.
San Fernando. Van Nuys. Topenga.
                    Torrance.
                              Long Beach.
                                         Burbank.
 He stays, counting aloud the the sweaty coins in his sweaty hands. Using his blackened index finger to scoot each coin from his palm.
He has that 1.25.
He has it in his hands.
He counts
Ninety five.
            One oh five.
                          One twenty five.  
Can get him out of Hollywood. Away from the piss-stained stars.
Escape for a moment.
But he only looks up from his busy face, bites his inner lips at a pulsing speed, and breathes out.

The bus flutters away without hesitation, exhaust steaming his chilled face.
Only to wait for the next bus,
And the next.
And the next.
Until the rodents peek their pink noses.
Until LAPD pass out their final DUI.
Until sirens cease their urgent squeals.
Until the sun glares over the Hollywood hills.

Holding still to the 1.25.

Picture taken in Los Angeles, CA

4 comments:

  1. hello... hapi blogging... have a nice day! just visiting here....

    ReplyDelete
  2. The imagery. I love it.

    ReplyDelete