Winter Commute

By Dean Tsang, with commentary from Alice Hiley

Coffee, sleep and a slow steady
walk keep me silent.
But now, stopping in my seat
discomfort spreads gentle static

And the anxious thoughts come,
of a mattress coated
in layers of skin, the skulls
nestled underneath.

Unclothed shapes roll, asleep with
skeletal asymmetry.
Chapped fingers cling onto
the red button, sending

Passengers to their feet.
The bus doors close
as I stay stuck inside
this frightful afternoon.

Talk sets stutters to self destruct,
explosions wobble
outside my voice, smoke clouds
leaking from us both.


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