The Last Bus from Issue 66
I have lost track of time again.
So now I ride, hungry and exhausted
and furnished with cold light for the trip,
a glow that greens travelers’ skin.
Nobody talks to me or smiles.
A few front pages blare headlines
then relax becak into the deeper
newspaper, below-the-fold details.
Nonreaders only stare ahead
at the driver’s hands on the big wheel.
I’m afraid someone from a distant
seat will make rounds, closing the eyes.
It’s a recurring mistake in the winter.
Even as a grown woman I hate to be
away from home after sundown. Tilting
a chair against my own kitchen wall,
I want to converse about the day’s events
after I’ve cooked supper and poured
each of us a second glass of wine.
Instead, I sit among strangers passing
darkened houses where I imagine that
other people have already finished dinner,
I envy the wife who has washed
her hair, buttoned herself into a decent
flannel gown and gone to bed with a book.