Red-coated lady
waiting for a bus,
hat pulled down
to hide a swelling
monument of love,
handbag gripped two-fisted,
leaving only the sleeves
to wipe the sadness
from your eyes.
So much misery
there on your dingy bench
and I feel your sadness.
What happened
to make your life fit
inside a suitcase
and why is it the only thing
between your legs
at two a.m.?
Maybe wasting minutes
feels better here
with your suitcase between,
instead of him.
It's merely speculation
on my part,
but I suppose yesterday's hopes
and tomorrow's dreams
die just as easily
in a one-way ticket
and anywhere's a better place
than where you were.
Greyhounds may be late
but they don't punch or yell.
C.J. Heck
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/waiting-for-a-greyhound/
