Six Blocks Home Poem by Joshua Bantum

In the cold
she could feel it thin
the Winter ice is forming around
the dead edges of Fall
around the soft ridges of her skin
she crosses the street with her stolen heat from
inside.

but too quick she left from work,
transfer, bus pass or money
somewhere lost beneath the cumbersome small triffles
of the day
and here it comes
rolling in on time, and she's done it all perfect
except for the placement of her ticket.

Her large body, and slow movements
gather momentum like a descending snowball.

formalities with the driver
takes time
her thick hand swatting through her purse
takes time,
the plump lips flopping over into an awkward smile
as she passes towards her seat
takes time
and the recurring cold has taken her time
for years,
she speaks French, but is not French, so she's seen many
Montreal Winters.

I can not stand her
hair painted over too often, the real shows through
cheap nails of longer length than necessity requires.
the wrinkled dents in her face are not phantom
marks of a human who has smiled too much
but instead
one who has lied
and attempted to hide in their lies too much.
I hate her more and more

So I follow her.

Off the bus, only a block away from our first meet.
On a new bus, three mintues later,
again
swatting through the purse
again
lips like raw chicken-skin curling over from applied heat

Off the bus, only another block away.

She boards again,
and we venture yet another block from here,
then there,
another block

Same
every checkpoint
losing her transfer
six different times, lost
in pockets, purses and fur coats.

Finally she exits
the bus, six blocks away
forty minutes later,
and still the flawless and daring temperature
is at the streets to make a point

Now, at her door

She squawks out a shiver
the fur vibrates
I've followed a gigantic hen to her nest,
and I'm tired of caring
about uselessness

I'm tired of watching a species not playing fair
with the rest
who make their way
for the better
of the rest
making their way.

Can't our space be more active
than a bus seat warmer
Can't my words span further
than pixelated orchestras composed by mathamatics

No,

all things need to build
slowly beyond their sorces destruction
they consume past flesh for new spinal cords
and old thoughts for new religons

She will finish her life
taking buses
and creating lies for excuses about actions
that are partially important
and then she'll die
and give the plump hands
the chicken skin lips, the
whole show
back to its maker.
And the World will tally up
one more point
for the Planets possible survival.