A wee human skull, a layer
of near-transparent skin
veined, and nestled between
two breasts caught in the sun
on a bus home from work
lends meaning to nothing —
the sixth sense of loneliness
in this bustle of city lives
too complicated for anyone’s
own good, all too exhausted
to notice, weaving quickly
in and out of evening traffic
there — in the confusion of
voices, horns, and engines,
her pleading, toothless smile.
Stephen Jackson lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest. His poems have appeared in a variety of online and print publications. You can follow him on Twitter @fortyoddcrows.