Bus Stop Children

Early, risen numbly,

they surface from the fog

in pearl bas-relief,

quick to lock unswerving

eyes with the harried (spent,

work-bound gray as moths):

young people clicking

electric to the current

between two glances.

They’re twelve, or fifteen,

sleep-tongued under dawn,

peering at drivers, their plaster

unset (is anyone set?).

Hormones lay marrow-dark

inscriptions over us;

just as our paint dries,

we turn chin, looking

away from others, either

because it’s polite not to stare,

or because we’ve ceased

to hope for answers when begging

questions with our eyes.

95 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All