It’s Haibun Monday (or was, I’m late) at dVerse poet’s pub. A Haibun is a Japanese form – tight prose followed by a haiku. Kim asks us to write about solitude.
She rises early. An hour of silence for coffee, before conversation centers her, braces her for the onslaught yet to come. She’ll watch the hummingbirds, soak in the light.
The bus is crowded, hot, standing room only. The coat next to her is scratchy – it brushes against her arm each time the wearer moves, adjusts, breathes. She pulls her shoulders in tighter, compresses her own ribcage, rubs her arms, now prickly and bothered. Between her shoulder blades, a boiling tingle starts, itching up her neck, pulling beads of sweat out from each hair. She wishes she brought her headphones, looks down at her phone.
She retires early. She loves them, but sometimes the talking scrapes against her ears, rises her ire. It’s better if she doesn’t have to listen.
the edge of campus
reading in spring’s long twilight,
deer come to study.