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Poem

The bus is half-full, empty seats are occupied
by the soon to be born, the soon to be dead,
those in transition.

The medium knows he is a guest in a stranger’s dream.
When he thinks about this, he shivers and turns
to the window, lets himself be distracted
by the dusty fields, the wind cranking farms.

A bespectacled matron moans 
as the knit of her life slowly unravels.
Eighty years dead; white mice 
have been born and have passed away in her head.

A travelling salesman yet to be conceived
stares about him, thinking he is in a movie.
People speak a language he does not understand -
there are no subtitles for his state of mind
however, his future occupation has already been seeded
within the mixology of an ancient starlight.

The medium wishes he were more accustomed
to the slow process of astral dissolution
and regeneration.
Passengers cling to the long straps of their minds
as the Greyhound sways. 

Some occupants dream
that they have a real ticket for this life, 
others may have purchased a ticket,
but not a destination;
they fidget in their seats,
and wonder why the trip is taking so long.

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