the parking lot of the bus station
looks out past the funeral home
where they presented my mother
with my father's cremains
a slow drizzle falls
the sky is drawn in bold strokes
of more greys than i can fathom
dotted with clouds of birds
moving in swarming circles
so small they look like flies
at the second of three stops
on this impromptu journey home
i listen to thom yorke intone
"everything... in it's right place"
and the mash of horns jam blasting
does little to lessen my gooseflesh
or the purpling beds of my fingernails
i left my jacket back on the couch
the low moving ceiling of clouds
is breaking to reveal eggshell blue
along the northern horizon
i'm in a vulnerable position
and all these storms will pass over
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