after Marty McConnell

​

by Sam Herschel Wein

​

 

Everything stays under the covers until 

just three minutes

before the bus will leave

the vestibule, its 

see-through, glass walls that

rarely protect from blurry winds

everything watches

the bus pull 

from the station, 

everything does 

deep-breathing-exercises on the 

next bus that was seven minutes

later, 3 minutes late

for work, 

0.25 occurrence points

per the times everything is late for 

work, but everything

is working on not letting the stress

surge and

bubble outside the bus

window, searing heat and shooting

like a beam through the roof

the bus, the job, the

chain-chicken place where everyone

goes to eat lunch, weekly, on a

stool. Everyone is playing

the capitalism game in one way 

or another,

everything is a handful of

old fish sticks from

the freezer 

on a plate for breakfast, is so many

hours on the bus

the train the

bus the desk the desk the desk 

everything is at the desk

and then, one day, everything sits down

at the computer, properly, types 

a goodbye, waits out the weeks

til the game is over, for a moment,

everything gets to walk out, 

feel free, uninsured. People say best of 

luck but everything can’t 

break a leg, in that

outside place