On the Bus
I wait to get home.
The bus keeps on its route.
Shadow buildings bow in the rain.
The driver recites in staccato
names of streets, names of people,
years of passengers’ births and deaths.
Each street grows its people.
They ripen and wait to be picked up.
I fear that future in which I live
less than I die. Beyond the window
hide what they carry in their wombs.
First published in The Shore, Issue 3, Autumn 2019