College Station

Ichor-black streams pooling
on either side of the poor
cinder block basin–
two rivers diverged in the gloom
and dark.

The flipped-switch automaton-voice
drawls over the dank
and my eyelashes feel heavy
in the haze and pallor unkind.

One man,
holding Kernals popcorn
with a wafting sting of pungent vinegar
argues with himself
over why he has the right
to argue with himself.
The umbrella is tucked
deftly underarm,
with the threat of cogent sanity impending.

Gusts rumble and stir
hair and skirts;
eyes squint at the tunnel dust
as headlights appear.

Heading north.


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