hUddLe brOkeN

The penetration of my maliced marrow is dedicatedly sharp. Sharp. Sold out by the flux of Friday's spread on toast, an earlier everyday. Spread t h i n.

Exiting, my eyes do feel big. Like he said. As a frog's. Bulged. Protruding and unescapably chilled by the winter air. I think of goggles.

With a drink of tea, my teeth crack like frozen cubes interrupted. Faintly, the sound is heard. The same Sunday journey. Hazelwood Road. A bus. Steamboxed windows. Clam baked once upon a time. Dare not to touch. Slightly more crisp than a watercolor painting-colors are louder this way. Up close-droplets from a swoop of a dirty rag pretending to clean a table.

Ahh.. enjoyment. Ease. They exited. Loud talkers, a language I know not. The yelling. Talking over..Upstairs. I could hear downstairs too. Babies cry. Contentful Cockneys. Almost bilingual.. Ahh.. enjoyment. Nearly silent. Minus the rattle of this dinosaur.

I share upper deck in close proximity. Three of us in front. Practically huddled. Two olders. Men. One with ring. One without. With ring, with cane. A stick. Both hats. One baseball. One not. One glasses. One without. One jeans. Unbaseball- pinstriped instead. No glasses.. pretty patterns. Delightfully clashed. Bull frog eyes like me. His like water, mine like dirt. Fishing hat instead. Long stringy white. Shoes like chestnuts..Hands relaxedly clasped. I contemplate his being. The stories of his wrinkles. His jumper. His lack of ring...

I glance up to a fluorescent sign. SLOW DOWN.
I wish I could.

Ahhh....run run. Down. Down. I almost missed my stop.
Huddle broken.