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A sonnet for class(contemporary, non-iambic and meteric play was OK) |
| People are shifting in hard blue plastic seats in city buses all across the country, with their necks craned forward, like birds picking through squares of mud for the worm’s twists. Sometimes their laden heads fall over and matted hair spills on the window, pressing their gaze hard against glass like they mean to break through. I was looking over just such a stranger(you, with your arms crossed up in straitjacket fashion) when our stares got all tangled. You smiled a little and then I smiled so big it hurt. Our faces were like hot rust from that fire we felt should burn in every bus in America. |
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