by Joe Aprile

The morning peers through the fog
with a vague remembrance of summer light
like a forlorn suitor dreaming of illusive romance,
passengers stationed around the bus stop
eyes transfixed on the dull horizon
waiting for bus #20
not knowing whether to be glad or
disdainful on its arrival.

The diesel groans along the wet shimmering streets
disrupting downward caste of winter rain on its
monolithic path to resilient earth.

Up the ramp to the west seattle bridge
onto old highway 99,
through rain streaked windows across
the wind swept sky,
swooping cranes stand hungry for the cargo
lying atop the giant freighters
and ferries inch across the cool grey water.

Downtown grows larger as it approaches
digesting commuters in magnificent gulps,
passengers exit in hurried composure
joining the crowds already in motion
in search of their occupations.

Down first avenue,
street of tawdry dreams,
humans stand idle on street corners
prey to their own sad devices
minds grown hollow from disuse.

Up pike street in the early morning
towards Broadway and
journey's end.

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