I
am born
in
Greyhound dreams
sleek
and wild.
I
hear the rumbling music
through
the night
smell
of diesel
fast
yellow light lines sliding by
through
the magic time and space
of
the interstate.
Catfish
shacks beckon
but
we don't stop
I
turn, longingly, thinking
of
fishing poles
and
a long and lazy man
on
the river bank,
waiting
for me
home
rolled smoke between his teeth
humming
something blues
but
we don't stop.
The
fried chicken lady
snores
softly
fourteen
children
in
her lap.
The
big man next to me
slumps
against my shoulder
pinning
me to the dusty diesel window.
I
peek through the windows
of
ticky tacky houses with
night
lights and burglar lights
and
motion lights in the yards
fear
me, I think to them, and
fear
the big bathless guy and
the
fried chicken lady and her
fourteen
kids, for we are
terrible
to behold,
after
three days in the Greyhound dream.
I
see the late night sidewalk people
as
we pull in, huffing and grinding.
They
aren't afraid of us, I know.
What's
it like to be them?
I
think I knew, a long time ago
but
now, I forgot.
But
I'm a flea
on
a big beautiful fast moving dog
I
can jump off anytime, and be reborn
and
I can remember
whatever
I want, and see
whatever
I want, and be
whoever
I want
when
the bus that births me sets me free.
Last Drop of Courage
I Hope You Were Laughing, Sometimes
Blue
Lady ~ To Kenny
~ To David
A
Pack of Cards ~ Road
Souls ~ Roads
Don't Jell Easy
Santa
Rosa de Copan, Honduras
We're
All Parades, Here ~ Ginsberg
