corner.

Standing at the corner, waiting. Waiting for the bus to come sweep me away from this place, this same space, this fortress, cloud city solitude. Standing at the corner, watching homeless men skeptically out of the corner of my eye, because someone’s got to protect me when I’m feeling so vulnerable. Waiting at the corner, standing, for the me that wants to change but feels like it’s just so hard sometimes. The corner waits, standing. The bus comes, too late, it’s made me late for my connection, and I’m only a little bit mad. But the next corner that never comes, my stop, my turn to get off, it passes me by. I’m left standing on the bus next to the driver, asking if he’s going to my corner, my stop, my safe place. He says he’s new and that he’s missed it on accident; he’s so sorry. Isn’t that just the corner piece of the brownie pan, three days old and abandoned for staleness and general lack of good vibes. If I stale out, pale in comparison to the people standing next to me, waiting on the corner to get off at their corner, will no one even try to cut into me anymore?