On a Lincoln Highway Greyhound Depot
Sitting on a rusted blue bench the sun blew down on me a cool
green and yellow as the afternoon tucked me into
bed,
The depot was old, no busses run anymore at least as far as I
know only ghosts get off at this stop.
White paper houses drifting along the plain finding themselves
comfortable and settled in the cardboard cow-towns of
cool America.
Crying to me “Where do you go?” with a stop for a sip of black
coffee and the dirt on the ground ends up on my shoelace but
I don’t care.
I see apparitions float into the motel and out of town and hop
over the sea in one leap then over in India where the
children cry and soon enough everything is a ghost
floating its way around the blue-green earth
and not really minding me just going along and brushing
the dust off themselves.
I look to my right, I see the road leading into town and a bird
flies above in the shape of the color off-white then like
a car drives off to the west, west, west as the
continent unrolls like a Mohammedan carpet under
their feet.
The wind continues to tumble along and drops at my feet the
lonesome cry of a locomotive whistle not that far away from me
soon a train rumbles over me and I am crushed finely into
powder and carried down by the wind hopefully to end
up at my mother’s front door not some hole in the ground
that would be dreadfully lonesome.
Now the motel lights flicker clinging to life and it's just
dark enough for me to notice the headlights stopping by
for a how-do-you-do before rolling on and looking at me but
just passing probably because I’m a mess and dirty
and hair’s greasy but I promise I’m still kicking.
Soon though I may die so that a skeleton bus can roll
through this sometimes-town at sunset and out steps a
weary driver with broom and dustpan in hand to pick up
my bleached bones and dump me in the back seat hopefully
by a window because I like to lay my head against it
to sleep where it’s comfortable and my grinning cadaver
will ride through this country and over hills and
hollers around the world and look back every 4 and a
half miles and sigh because I’m looking back
To that Lincoln Highway Greyhound Station.
Copyright © Alex R-G | Year Posted 2017
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