three boats went by, surfing on deft hands.
come night, a crustacean will burrow its feet into gravel
and a man will yawn on a belt of grass, his hands worn
like the leather hydes smiling in his closet.
a street, a stretched sky, three cracked eyes.
his stool is parked on the edge of a bus stop.
the bus is an uncharted woolen night,
steals glances at him when is not looking.
i wish i knew the streets around here but
night is falling so abruptly these days.
the bus driver finds a coat in the silence.
time is used to falling now. days are saving room,
and i drive this bus longer and longer every night.
under the sky, the bus driver winds down
like a clock that dies over years.
the night heaves a longer breath. it crushes him under the weight.
Ren Weber is a writer in San Francisco, CA. She studies creative writing at Ruth Asawa School of the Arts and has been published in the University of Baltimore’s literary journal Welter and Panoply.