Occasional Skeletons

Through the tendrils of heat we see the rains that have yet to arrive. The sun's bony fingers lurching through crowded streets. High heels click hot on the stones of the pavement. Mascara weeps. The winter that beat us to death, now a fond memory. Under the potent microscope of fickle seasons.

On an escalator. In an air-conditioned Eden. Those same tales are told again. Complete with deformed monsters and princes more beauty than substance. My weak art struggles against the physics. Of broken stairs. All the empty rooms between cellar and attic. That leave the world much bigger than I can manage.

The ink on her arms running close to the veins. A vague reminder of the blood behind the bones.

At the back of a quiet train. Inside a seldom noticed station. There remain. Many passengers. Still waiting. For somewhere to go.