Bus stop #1556, Route 90

I sit and sink in frothy cement
The Pacific view tells me to go home

I am no more here
than there
and no more deaf than mute
to the cacophony of what awaits
inside
that murky tsunami.

A stranger to my own birth land
a wistful nostalgia
waiting for a plane turbine to crash
into my bedroom

One day I'll catch a flight out
and be so much more there than
here

I'll be dragged down the
wormhole
and I finally won't have so much salt water
in my ears
so I'll be able to hear more than

Waves of time,
patient solitude,
and city bus benches.