Morning; City; Wonder and Blood

Fresh cuts in the winter’s cold

hurt more than Hemingway’s

saddest flash fiction; in a burnt

out strip-shadow I waited for

the bus and wondered how

long it will take for the blood

to finally freeze, lest I will

have to use my coat, not a

solution, not in probate, not

in the misery of pain; sour

and pale, a woman asked for

the time, all I can see is bottles

of booze, and dreams of fur

wrapped tents, filled with sex

and Babylonian women, I am

the Sultan of greater purpose,

even if it’s not proper; “7:05”

I say to her, and she asks for

a light. I quit, and I tell her

that; it’s foreboding and swept

like hair, like my hair, which

I kept in a bag after I had a

ponytail as teenager, and she

continues to talk, the tunnel

of wind propulses cold and

without purpose, I look down

at my hand, the blood, at last,

finally gel; I ask the woman

for a bandage, she exhales smoke

from her long white cigarette and

says she isn’t a nurse, the bus

pulls up and she walks away.

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~ by Shawn M. Young on December 22, 2016.

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