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.

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