The Wake

Standing at the bus stop, I scratch at my chin,
feel rough stubble growing.
my sweat smells like cigarettes.

A mantra runs through my head, A poem fueled
by alcohol and late nights sanitizing, purifying my thoughts:
:
I take it all back,
It bein’ The Fear
I’ll mail you the change.

I’m told of an old man,
He smells of antibacterial soap and war stories.
He is going back to Energy soon.
Decades of stress leave the old man’s face
visibly every day, every time he exhales
the wrinkles smooth out and ancient toxins hiss into the air,
harmless.
I take it all back,
It bein’ The Fear
I’ll mail you the change.