Every Day,
A Century

Touching Them

Keeping your pace you note the people running, many without umbrellas, those with them seeming odd and more dangerous with their heads down and unaware of who they're passing. Then, when at last you reach your stop, the man and woman on the bench refuse to move though there's space for more, the last blocked by someone standing there. Soaked and heavy you say pardon which they ignore. So you take the smallest space, your wet clothes touching them. Only the woman complains, throwing back your word and pogledaj (look). You glance and grit your teeth, waiting on the bus.

Vanessa Raney


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