Wednesday, September 13, 2006

To the tough kid with that drawn look

Too much beer
Not enough pussy
And a nagging at his mind
That he is not and never will be

So he slumps there,
Holding his breath every
Once in a while
To see what it is

To imagine the blackness
He'd stare up at without
Knowing or maybe knowing
Until his eyes rot
In their sockets

At least it would be quiet
No heart pounding because
Of too many cigarettes
No bratty kid wailing in
The backroom

No thought
No nothing

As the bus pulls up he
Scratches out his cigarette
On the concrete and sticks
The unconsumed portion
In his front pocket


  1. Here's my bus stop haiku. Based on my last wait at 9th east and 3900 south.

    Oh weird squinting man.
    Why are you talking to me?
    I'm trying to read.

  2. I too love that last image--also the third stanza.

  3. Cigarettes can be quite expensive with over-consumption. Good for him. He'd rather have his lungs rot out than his eyes. (I'm with him on that one)

  4. Well observed, SCIAZ.

    Thank you all for your kind comments. I quite like the last stanza too.

    You should see this one performed.