Seven nuclei brazen themselves
to the rear-end of the near-empty bus,
orbiting my atmosphere,
elucidating words too long
for their apparent youthful looks.
Hoity-toity voices warble around
“bioscience” “micro-biology”
and “it's all common-sense, really!”
as each uttered syllable
sucks from my ether,
condensing words like 'class'
and 'privilege' so each sputter
sounds round, like a marbled cloud
swallowing the formaldehyde air.
My skin wrinkles with inferiority.
She, a chieftain, charges with personal
positivity, leaving only negativity
around her. She likes the word
“crwys,” apparently, a vowelless word,
usurping conversing 'friends.'
Ghostly white coats trail their behinds
as they approach escape velocity,
a yellow rose
blooming
from my imaginary gun.
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