The rising sun blooms, a flower. Petals shimmer in radiant color along the horizon leaving the air thick with its pungent aroma which clings to our tongues with each breath we huff. Our feet, one in front of the other, file along the harsh sidewalk toward the bus stop. Each footfall a first step laid against the desire to turn back to a cocoon of warm blankets, where dreams live.
Eyes bleary, a cabbie leans against his golden stead, talking through a bushy moustache to several men, gathering the day's news from each others mouths. They are loud, but a comfort to those that silently shuffle beyond them into the day.
Pink, a girl, head to toe and even her lunch box, fords the asphalt to join a few friends. They will spend the day in the old school building, passing time on the playground and in classrooms until their parents are released to come free them.
A dance club rave card flutters, flipping this way and that, moves against the human flow, having peeled itself from the corner of the small shelter where people gather to wait for the bus. Bright in color, it flees the dawn light, more comfortable in the long dark night.
Cordial smiles, we shuffle foot to foot marking moments until the appointed arrival. A young suit, eyes closed, swoons to croons of the iPod in his ears. Shorts and t-shirt checks his texts. Stretch pants follows the numbers on her watch while she jogs in place, a monitor strapped to her arm counts the meter of her heart.
Inches from my canvas Converse, pressed against the plexi-glass encased advert where a tooth filled face invites us to watch the evening news, lays a body, legs stretched, arms pulled to the chest. Stiff and unmoving, devoid of life, unnoticed except in disgust, a fly crawls across its stomach.
A mouse, a pest, a menace for digging in trash to find food, or invading for shelter. None will mourn its passing, but many will complain of its stench. A black cat eyes us all from beneath the skeleton of a scrub brush that burst through a square gap in the concrete. the cat too waits for us to move on to other things, so it can claim its prize and pick the brittle bones of life once lived on the edge.
Hiss, exhaust wafts around us, as we file on and head off, flower blooming still through the rear window, painting the backs of our heads.
written for Imperfect Prose
6 days to dVerse