Greyhound
Nov 19 2008


The aisle seat seemed best —
a quick exit
room to stretch my legs.
And better than boxed-in by the window
by the unwashed man
with wine on his breath,
or a fat lady shedding cat hair.

The bus wheezes into motion
whines-up the succession of gears,
rattles over badly patched pot-holes
sways through tight city curves.
Reading lights
are soft halos of concentration.
The smell is hard to place —
garlic sausage,
the human animal,
long-johns that need a change.
The driver’s bald spot
jostles like a bobble-doll,
the head that contains us all
in its command
of feet and hands,
on the wheel
the gas.

We passengers are accidental strangers
and instant kin,
a gathering of lost souls
and seekers
and people in need,
assembled on this point of feeble light
dusting through the prairie night,
miniscule
under the vast dome of stars.

The sleeping houses are dark
as we pass unseen,
a dull asteroid among the constellations,
a black cloud of heavy diesel
left hanging in our wake.