AMONG THE PASSENGERS
1
Through the window of the bus, he combs a field,
close-shaves the bristling oats, straps in a fence line,
pockets adjoining timber, then rides into the morning,
pleased.
Now retired and let out to pasture, he
does not mind the clouds, the rain that fogs the highway—
his eyes are patched with blue.
Hands leathered and roped,
knees astraddle, boots shined, he is seated beside
as neat a filly as any in the herd he used to lope
in season.
With stallion gallantry, with sweets, he holds
the miles to coffee stops and anecdotes ... till memory
spurs his old man's hopes ... and the night stampedes.
2
Separated by long years and the visibility poor,
her mood reflects the weather, darkening within.
Dishes, diapers, sighs, and pills ... roof by roof,
she hears the monotone of wheels recite the gloomy
catechism, and prays for a different kind of virgin
miracle.
Nervously, she rubs her good luck stone,
then wraps her thoughts in cellophane as a heroine
of film and fashion, glad to forget home, school,
and all the lost-girl tales they tell of Hollywood,
She listens, nods, and smokes. She does not mind his boasts,
only too aware how the ashes cling to his coat.
(1 x 1)n
I can accept
the being born
and the dying,
in doubt, alone.
I do not reject
or, seeing, scorn
anyone's crying
about the unknown.
And yet. And yet.
How the being alone
in the living
makes me mourn.
I can not forget
the breathing in stone,
unforgiving
and forsworn.