11/30/2020

I’ve killed some you, six, seven times
while waiting for the bus
bored and invisible and wishing I had a car
some with fire, gunshots, a cold and intense stare
others with explosions, my bare hands,
some just dropping dead because I will it so.
I don’t know anyone here, so I pass the time
killing, because I’m sad and bored, tired and cold
My mind takes a moment too long to manufacture
another mental murder before asking itself,
is this healthy? Normal? Obscure and bad form?
If someone read my mind would they be
shocked but amused or frightened and alarmed?
Do I think of sex instead and rank everyone, or
imagine who I’d save first, then one by one if I could?
Do I create backstories of love and losses, of how
we all came here, carless and dull?
I kick a rock at my foot sideways, watching it click
across the concrete, pretending it is a bomb.
Do I run away or am I immune to its explosion?
I ignore the pointless thought swiftly,
wishing I wasn’t even here in the first place.