greyhound

sitting on
the bus as it shoots
the gap, and enters
a tunnel you realize
that it's a long ways
from start to finish.
there is no straight
path, and the memory
of where you've been
is often foggy with
wrong turns, bad
stops along the way.
you cringe at
bus stations where
you spent the night
and brushed your
teeth in a public
restroom, slept on
a bench waiting for
your destination to
be called. you can
hear the squeak and
exhale of airbrakes
as the doors flop
open into another
hellish hot day in
in jersey or delaware.
nowhere to be in july.
no one gets off, but
an old lady with
knitting needles
and a jar of blueberry
jam. everyone's got
that far away look,
that unshaven, unemployed
gaze. not a spark
going on in this
dark tunnel moving
down the freeway. you
stare out the window
at the scorched earth.
the endless sagging
fields of corn stalks.
the abandoned sheds
selling fireworks
a week ago. you stare
at your ticket in
your hand. you try
to remember where you
are going and why you
left wherever it was
that you came from.
all of those black birds
on the wire, as still
as stones make it
all even worse.