Ember Days-A poet’s diary
My hasty steps echo
on the cracked stone tile,
before the bus door hisses
shut—Late again.
"It's a wonderful life," the clouds sing in chorus.
Their church choir harmony almost offensive,
if I didn't know,
they truly believe
life is lullabies and steaming apple tea.
Swear-soaked hair clings to my neck.
I call these ember days:
when smoldering urban air chokes—
Yet the clouds drift,
marshmallow white—
Like porcelain swans on azure water.
I watch the bus hustle
away, breath too ragged
to properly curse.
The clouds grin,
like they're genuinely satisfied—
—just being.
Wouldn't that be something.
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