Published Monthly

Grand Central Station
by Mack Bridenbaker

Old black woman in the food court
Digging through a garbage can
Searching for food
Eating what she finds
Cold chicken in a white Styrofoam container
I tell my friends to be thankful
And to say a prayer
“There is no God,”
Says my friend
Eric the Atheist

In the men’s bathroom
A horrible stench
Homeless man in a tweed jacket
Cleaning out his underwear
Carrying in his right hand
Feces wrapped in toilet paper
Using the electric hand dryer
To cure his wet underwear
And to circulate the stench
My gag reflex wins the battle
I had just waged against it

At the urinals
A man stands for too long
I stand next to him
As he peers over the privacy dividers
And now leers at my penis
I can see his eyes move
Up to my eyes
Down to my penis
Up to my eyes
Down to my penis
Where his eyes become fixed
Affording me a level of discomfort previously unattained
I get stage fright and can’t piss

I exit the bathroom,
A stranger smiles and says to me,
“Beautiful city, isn’t it?”

Mack Bridenbaker works in public relations, but his goal in life is to be a professional writer. Until that happens, he has no other choice but to sell his soul to corporate America. His poetry was published in Pedestal Magazine's Political Anthology.


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