Hakuna Matata

Slipping on melted ice, jagged the

crackfall, twenty seconds

now to the next bus, missus

driver now honks, hands

hurrying. Fare to the penny

eaten and that squeeze

to the far end where you

are first to leave.

 

One mother sits with child,

in her coffee-stained

uniform; minimum scraped

meat for supper waiting

cold for the hungry brains

that slurp on them

tonight; and as she taps

lovely daughter’s curly

top, that wonder of when

the bus stops for them

 

The end sees you chilly

buying burning death from

the woman at the counter; she

buries her humped-nose

into lettered flair, automated

hands speaking to the till;

and that last ten bucks

owed to a good shift’s

good tips, forks itself

over for its barter

 

Home, your heater blares

0 to 20 in five minutes

feet sliding off shoes, ass

plops to the leather, light

flickers to the end of the

dynamite, inhale-hold —

exhale; yet one-second flick

holds the falls of a mis-

connected bus, the cries

of a single mom cooking

for a fast food, and the sound-

crushing moans of the

romance novel; but that one-

second flicks the light,

flicks the life, flick

your world

——————-

This is the 100 Songs Project, a 100-day writing challenge based on AFI’s 100 Years…100 Songs. Every day, I write a short poem, prose piece, or play based on, reacting to, rejecting, accepting, or doing something related to one of the songs in the top 100 list.

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