The bus turns and rolls lil screws fall out.
Rattling as they get off at their stops.
I got off the bus, clouds of dirt came in
like a crowd of people.
The dry silty surface of the pavements
kick up in the wind, into your face.
Into your lunch as you carry it.
Into your hair staining it.
Brown dust coats the walls
and have even written over the
graffiti.
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