A stop

Gray-haired woman with a stick,
dark brown — oak, heavy and thick.
The soles of worn-out sneakers sigh.
Bright keys jingle, clink, and fly

in the hand of the lady in white.
The hem of the one in lilac takes flight.
A dog goes click-click on the track.
A bike lands thud — then settles back.

I sit on a bench.
My hands are clenched
in my pockets… stanch.

The sole meets asphalt with the boot.
That guy’s so calm — even magnesium’s brute
gulps, obeys, and mutters, “Yes —
let him still my chemical mess.”

I sit on a wooden bench.
My hands — still clenched.
Nails bite the skin.
My pockets grin.

Behind — the theatre’s aching mass.
Another role. Another farce.
A faded bowl of second takes
where meaning sloshes, bends, and breaks.

I sit on a wooden bench.
My hands — still clenched.
I should make my moves,
Slip into the grooves —
The usual paths,
But still—
I don’t.
I must.

16.05.2025