Taboo
The cold bench by the bus stop
Has had a carcass beneath its metal beams For as long as I can remember
A rotting disfigured thing
Every morning I must sit above it
With a burning nose and watering eyes Pretending it doesn’t exist
Until the bus stops by and takes me away
I only ever glanced at its face too similar to mine I hated it, the selfishness it exudes
Too loud and consuming
Its stench clings to my clothes
That mangled hand clutching for my pant Desperate for attention and love
But it’s ugly, undeserving
Diseased with malaise so easily caught
This morning is different
Its grip a vice in my eyes
I can’t look away
Even when the doors close
And the driver shouts
I can still see it through the glass
And all throughout the day
The author, Matthew Dal Porto is an accounting major who write as a hobby.