poor craftsmanship

expressions outside

the toolshed are

hammers in paralyzed fingers,

drills with no bits,

shovels on concrete.

dynamite is tucked far in

the corner.

tenacity will make it light,

but sometimes 

i settle for a single candle.

enough to let me see

how much i cannot reach.

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the bus stop

is a metal sign posted in front

of the electric company office.

the office was

converted from an old school.

the school was built with red bricks

and molded concrete sometime around

1910 or 20.

two wide columns surround the main

door.

the old school is a castle.

oak trees give shade to two concrete

block benches.

cars and trucks pass on 6th street where

the bus will be.

electric company employees

smoke cigarettes or vape

and wait at the curb of 6th street for a ride.

they don’t wait for a bus,

but for another friend.

i sit in the shade on the concrete block bench,

reading.

cars and trucks keep passing.

a shirtless man mumbling to himself

wanders into the street until a car

brakes and honks.

the honk echoes down concrete walls.

the sun starts to fall.

the bus rumbles in like a boxy

purple slug.

i get up from the bench and walk

to the sign that says,

‘bus stop.’

the three peeling blue stickers on the sign say

‘2’ and ‘2’ and ‘2’.

the driver turns on the orange blinking lights to

stop.

he lowers the door with an

hydraulic gasp and electric beeping.

i step on and take my seat.

we roll away.