By Weasel

lighting a cig
i lean against moss-covered brick walls
there’s a man on the other side
hands outstretched
trembling for change

people slither past
ignore his problems

this man held worn eyes in his skull
his hope for a meal dies off

my smoke drifts to clouds filled with water
they wait to give birth
the bus stalls at the stop
its engine squeals
people push themselves against the window
mouthing for help
their tears drip down the glass
emergency lights start flashing
drivers honk angrily

thunder rolls smoothly overhead
police and medics arrive
they surround the bus guns drawn
they enter swiftly

two young teens are escorted out
one hand cuffed
another bleeds on a stretcher


Weasel is a degenerate writer who received his Bachelor of Arts in Literature at the University of Houston-Clear Lake. He currently uses it as scrap paper to fuel his two publishing imprints Weasel Press and Red Ferret Press.