POEM 025/100

July 20, 2012

One leg drags

in filthy, torn pants

fingers tremble when not balled into a fist

his mouth berates the empty air


I think,

this is probably one of his better days

and write this in my notebook

so avoiding eye contact

as he briefly hovers in front of me

like steam


My absurdly hot Americano

in its thin paper cup

has burnt my fingertips

POEM 010/100

June 6, 2012


and that unwashed body smell

mingle darkly

in the wide berth

around him at the escalator’s



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