Poetry- “The Bus”

The Bus


We all ride south

Out of downtown

Headed home


A few Anglos

And mostly shades of brown

Young men fresh from offices

Stooped old women from cleaning carts


A few students here and there

A mother and her two children

Little girls their teeth filled with solder

But still smiling, refuges or migrants who can say

On the bus it doesn’t matter anyway and it shouldn’t anywhere


There’s all sorts of crazies too

A  woman who’s friend’s been stabbed

No idea how to get to the hospital

Or the friends real name


Men talking to themselves

How much the VA says they have

In a bank account if only they could

Get into it in cities they’ve never seen


Man talking to Jesus

But He’s not there

For the rest of us to see

We’re all condemned except for he


We ALL ride south standing or sitting

Rush hour out of downtown

And the seamstress

From her own seat half way back

Watches over all of us

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