the greyhounds

the old
grey hound
bus station on
eleventh street
was a place
you went to
if you wanted
trouble,
or to leave
town because
of trouble.
it smelled
of wet despair,
smoke,
urine. half
eaten sandwiches
tossed
to the ground.
it was a flea
bitten
crowd that sat
scratching
at hard to reach
places.
tickets bought
with change,
crumpled bills.
the buses, long
steel wagons
with the greyhound
on the side
sprinting,
idled loudly
at their docks,
the diesel engines
belching out
dark
blooms of exhaust.
sometimes they would
fill, but most times
they were half
empty before
pulling off towards
small towns, large
cities, depositing
the lost and
lonely
to destinations
barely on a map.