Tainted by the speckled allure of a bus drivers fury.
B rolled into desk and papers, began to wallow and his fingers, they went to work as his thoughts were lost in the air somewhere.
B's dreaming of the fast wind, the loud feelings and of breaking clocks.
And then the noise happens.
Like a branch fallen on the track, B's mind is torn from the wild ride to face the whip end of those spoken words. "...ired, have your desk cleared by 6."
B took the long route home by foot, via the new cemetery and the old bmx track.
His feet were drawling week yet a feeling so electric held him dancing along the fence line and B wallowed in the beautiful fury of freedom,
all the way to house and child.
And B's son had drawn a picture for him, with all the colours
of shifted opportunity.
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