Cliché abandonment at a bus stop

"Walk with me," she says
The dulling floorboards vibrate
Crests and troughs phase in and out
A doorknob turns halfway through
The neighbor forgot his car keys again

The synchrony continues to the stairs
Cloth polishes the potholed banister
The same doorknob turns, closes, locks
The polishing hand leaps from a cliff
And lands in a safe pocket

Only to be penetrated by water
Aliquots preserved in hexagons
Crushed by boots and paws and tires
Disrupted crystals breaking down
Into black, as if stains are a punishment

This isn't the city that never sleeps
Today is Sunday, sleepday
Spend time with family day, what day?
Today is Sunday, flyday, leaveday
Play that song from Armageddon day

Tread marks on paper, washed out
With more crystal hexagons turning into ink
Letters don't write themselves, usually
And if they do, the ink bottle tips
To mock the effort and hide its existence.