• Commuter

    01 Jan 2009 /  Older Stuff, Poetry

    My face was warm as I sat and thought
    About the money, and the money, and the money.
    My feet were as cold as a slice of January wind.
    And somehow I just sat there
    Feeling everything within my warm face
    And cold feet,
    Wondering if you were coming to find me,
    Or coming to despise me,
    While I thought about the money.
    I wondered if you would ever come
    Or call.
    My cheeks felt like a hand slap,
    My freezing feet.
    I kept looking through the dingy glass
    To see if you were following
    Or up ahead,
    Wondering if you were far behind,
    If you were cold or warm,
    If you thought about the money.
    I sat and despised my sitting.
    I thought and despised my thinking.
    And the money–How I despised the money.

    Posted by Scott @ 8:09 pm

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