Early Morning Bus Rides Past the Y
A finger tapping on a thigh,
An overt look, a smile, a nod, a sigh:
A wistful morning bus ride past the Y...
In the limbo of an exiled mind,
Time's a question no one answers --
Averted glances on a crowded street,
A smirk, a leer, a spoken dart we must not hear.
It is the grey of an eternal dusk
Wherein a dusty mirror keeps insisting
We see ourselves as we know we mustn't.
When did our names melt to an amorphous mass?
When did the pronouns confuse their gender?
He for she, she for he and it as well?
How long has Mary been our common Mother,
Sister, auntie, lover, brother -- and ourselves?
What's the kilometric distance, heaven to hell?
The rapping of a finger on a thigh,
A covert look, a grin, a wink, a sigh.
But all can lie, all can lie,
Are not signals, can mean...nothing...
Wishful morning bus rides pass the Y.
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