The Ride - Boarding Call
November 1996
Four A.M. at the terminal.
Dark, dingy and dusty
grafitti covered walls.
The young woman sits,
obviously uncomfortable,
on the bench
her purse clutched to her breast
and an odd looking bag of who knows what
lying on the floor between her feet.
Outside, the wind blows
and the rain comes down ceaselessly
washing the earth clean.
She thinks about this and wishes
that she could be clean again
wholesome, untainted by life.
The voice comes over the speaker
announcing the impending departure.
Slowly she rises, like an old woman
bent somewhat at the waist
as if she carries a heavy burden.
She boards the almost empty bus
and the driver looks into her eyes,
seeing, maybe, the pain and desperation
written within them.
She drops her gaze and hangs her head lower,
looking instead at the steps of the bus.
It is safer that way.
She moves slowly, seemingly painfully,
down the center aisle,
to a seat a little more than halfway back,
pushes her bag under the seat,
and slowly, cautiously, sits down.
She can't believe that she is really leaving.
She can't believe she stayed this long.
She can't believe how much agony
the human body can endure
and still survive.
She sits and she waits
as a few more passengers board the bus.
She looks at no one
keeping her eyes
either looking down
or out the window.
She shifts her feet and grimaces in momentary agony
as the left one comes in contact
with the seat in front of her.
She knows that she will need to stop
somewhere along the line
and see a doctor about her toe
and her ribs, her back.
(and the child, Please, God, the child)
Finally the bus is in motion,
lumbering out of the terminal
like some prehistoric creature
all shiny with silver scales.
She looks out the window to the east
thinking that she sees the glow of dawn.
A new day.
A new life.
Another chance to try to make things right
for herself
(and the child, PLEASE, GOD!! the child)
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