I can see the overpass.
As my bus approaches that part of town
I become more anxious.
I do not want to go there.
Crowds grow larger and less friendly.
Streets are not as well maintained,
Sidewalks are cracked, trees are few
And kiosks have replaced windowed stores.
Beggars and cripples are everywhere
An angry sun hi-lights the feeling
Of incipient violence.
I must get off the bus.
This not my part of town.
We will come to the last stop
And I will be left, conspicuous,
Among people who do not like my clothes.
Why are these people so shabby?
A smell of unwashed bodies
Pervades the bus as the driver opens the door.
I, the sole passenger, rise and exit.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment