Trailways 11

I know the me then.
The hair we cut drunk.
The cigarettes,
the music, the endless chatter of complaints
and sad laughs.

The scribbled notes home.

Squeezing and smashing through
the clubs that smelled like last week’s beer
and warm piss on wet floors.

She stood on top of a bus stop bench,
looking down the street,
shivering in the spring cold.
Wondering where she was.

After all the blur of travel.
Stations, buses, trains,
waiting, endless miles,
mendicant vans
with endless wheels turning
not knowing they wanted stopping.

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2 thoughts on “Trailways 11

  1. Ron Potter says:

    not knowing they wanted stopping

    going off the rails in the crazy train type poem, the last line sticks. I love it.

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