Bus Stop Woman
She's scorched by a sun that
Would delight Icarus.
A glass covered encasement
Is a tomb
For her frozen vegetables.
She's cooked,
Along with her dignity,
Along with her worth.
If those in cars
As they pass
Should chance a glance,
Chance a thought,
Their hearts would burst
And scream at the scene.
Long-suffering is not
A Sunday afternoon movie
With Coke and popcorn.
When the bus stop woman
Arrives at home,
She opens the door
And greets multitudes,
Waiting to be fed.
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