Bus Stop
Coal in the afterglow
red lamps basking
in the passing
of strangers and mingling
lights and strange words.
Black trees hunch contentedly
on banks of false suppositions
cornered cigarette smoke,
hiding laughter.
Feeble people march
to solid--beat--plank--still
wondering stars into place
with their drifting questions
poised on no one.
Under a dusty bus station canopy
I'm waiting for the time
when I can stop avoiding
a poem--surrounded
by words--graffiti--scraped
in pale plastic windows.
Between cars that the road
rolls before me, and people
no one makes eye contact
except for the evening star
singly watching perched in dusk.
Somewhere I find the language
painted on transforming sky
indelible and punctuated by
deep
black trees.
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