Stations of the Cross

Poems
- By Scott Nicholson circa 1995
(This is a "Bones From The Vault" feature in which I put some of my old work up for public ridicule on a quarterly basis. I wish there were some religious significance in this, but really, I don't have the energy to add any deeper mystic meaning. You're welcome if you like.)

Stations of the Cross

Brown handbags lean against the red man, as does his strawberry girl, who holds a ragged paperback. Their eyes spin like loose buttons in a dryer, looking for a bus they hope will never come-

a quick sigh like blue stars slipping
out of place-

Potato faces press against the window. An old woman in another man's clothes checks the pay-phone for change, then steps into the mist of the crowd. A fat man makes his hands quack like a duck.

The janitor hugs his mop,
mated for life. A teen-ager smokes
a wrinkled cigarette
and runs his thumb along the edge
of his ragged blue ticket.

The automatic doors hiss and sigh, and figures cross under the red exit sign.

They wear the miles
like wet red crowns. Their shadows litter the floor.

I finger the spare time
in my left front pocket, and watch