I sat next to God at a bus stop tonight,
cold, wet, musty and old.
Too nervous to move, I stared at the deck.
He poked his finger into a cigarette pack,
rustling for a Marlboro – stuck.
And with the cough of a dead man, he asked for a light.
Probing further as if to paint my picture,
He leaned against the sign post and sighed.
His hand scraped up his chin from a dirty, streaked neck.
He looked down, with eyes red and worn,
the corner of his mouth turned up to a pinch.
And with a cough of a dead man, he walked into the night.
©2012 – Andrew B. Clark