Stop looking at me, you. The crew's behind there at the barrel. The bus ain't never coming here, not here. Go get warm and you'll forget about the projects and my metal frown. You'll like the crew. They count the smoke cubes making love to the clouds. Nevermind my suitcase, you. And nevermind where I'm going or my busted eye. Don't stare. Don't be like them, counting and laughing and sitting in one place so long they rust.
(Above: Art from Grant Bailie which served as the prompt).