Muffled Bus Stop

The world ate itself this morning.

Swallowed the corner store, the rusted bike

chained to the lamp post, even the loud

mutter of Mrs. Henderson’s pug.

Just this thick, wet blankness.

It clung to my hair, tasted like old pennies.

Streetlights wore halos, blurred and sad.

My own breath, a small, quick cloud.

The bus, when it came, was a ghost

rumbling, too late, too slow.

I couldn't tell if I was moving

or if the world was just letting go.