Shipping Station

I laughed an uneasy laugh as humorous anecdotes got thrown around the room. My ignorance, no, my indifference to the topic of conversation making itself quite obvious. I find it puzzling that through supposed nonchalance to a situation, I still found myself feeling minuscule; a fly on the wall, the kid hiding beneath the table listening in on his parents, a ghost at the party. All eyes on you, your eyes on all but me. We broke the tension through colored blocks. The obviously limitless possibilities afforded by such materials offset by the alarmingly constricted set of choices I'm now left with. A blooming flower, a lit fuse; to walk away or to listen?

A ride down the Main, picking up speed, the cool night wind pinching my cheeks. Grateful for this sweater over my shoulders, annoyed at the drunks yelling at a passing taxi, anxious for the empty streets ahead. Passed through cobblestone roads, beneath highway overpasses, by dwellings either new or old. Trucks at the brewery loading up for their late night deliveries, the smell of fermenting yeast, of barley malt meshing with hops. A sprawling bridge to the South Shore, a decaying piece of heritage at its foot, a mangled coat hanger on the way out. My heart beating faster, my tonsils pulsing, the blood rushing to my head. By docked boats, by converging rails, the way out is up the Main.

It's a shame you'll never know what I told those silent walkways, those inviting dockyards, that unfortunately abandoned shipping station.