I will be reading a few poems written in the past six weeks at Capitol Hill Arts Workshop.
The air was withering as it passed through the dusty window pane. Nothing answered the monotune of the rolling suitcase. A pair of black highheels tapped impatiently until a gaze rediculed them. Two hands spread the newspaper whose headlines melted into the wall. All that was happening in the world shrank next to the thin yellow sign:
PASSENGERS MUST PURCHASE AND VALIDATE TICKETS PRIOR TO BOARDING THE TRAIN