Bum Stories

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a weathered man greets me on a corner
his face, aged ten times and his smile barely cracks
but I know it’s there as his eyes always confirm
for a million moments in passing
he shares with me his story
I read every line trenched in his scaling cheek
and coarse wore out locks
paint for me a daily tragedy
and all I do is keep walking

The Black Journal (Reconstructed Classroom, Industrial Area, Downtown)

Thursday, 12:15 P.M.


Ah, Det. Frost!
Perfect, you’re here.
OK, since we’re all present, let’s get started.
Follow me, the body is this way.
So, Det. Frost, have you ever dissected a frog?
In high school, perhaps?
Then, how about a teacher?
Ever dissect a teacher?

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