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.
Not sad, not angry, never surprised,
Not even filled full of spite,
Every day passes like a silent new moon,
Quietly through the whole night,
As her life walks along the treadmill of time,
Through a blank day like before,
Wanting to feel happy, fear, joy or disgust,
Wanting her feelings restored,
But she’s bound to this ride of emotional dead,
An empty, scratched, broken suit case,
Waiting to feel anything again,
To have emotions restored to her face,
Because her whole world is a day on the job,
Her bed, her work, and her ride,
Where she sells who she is to whoever will pay,
Even though her emotions have died.
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