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.