Next Stop

Running for the bus on weathered joints,
conscious they could pop at any point -
cushioned by the warm and spongy grass,
thinking of your tired, demanding heart.

Living is a thing they cast at you -
saturated postcard greens and blues.
Let it be a scene of war and strife,
fleeing from the cross hairs all your life.

Swaying like the palms, you check your change,
knowing you're beyond the sniper's range.
Life is like a faulty progress bar.
In a future life you'll drive a car.