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Laure Anne Bosselaar
Page 3
BUS STOP
Sullen, stubborn sleet all day.
Traffic jammed on Sixth. We cram
the shelter, soaked strangers, shivering,
straining to see the bus,
except for a man next to me,
dialing his cell-phone. He hunches,
pulls his parka’s collar over it, talks
slow and low:
It’s daddy, honey. You do? Me too.
Ask mommy if I can come see you now.
Oh, okay. Sunday. Bye. Me too. Bye.
He snaps the phone shut,
holds it to his cheek, staring at nothing.
Dusk stains the sleet, minutes slush by.
When we board the bus,
he’s still pressing the phone to his cheek.
Counted
In the park — while her mother
and another woman hold each other and kiss —
a three year-old counts pencils in a box:
one, two, five, seven, six...
She has already lived long
enough for shadows to pencil her in, already
knows hunger and the long
ache to be held
while all along the insatiable Counter
has held her:
each one of her frowns,
each breath
while all along spring
is pastelling everything —
the park, counting child, kissing
women and city dogs. They yap,
unleashed in the gravel and
reek of their
fenced-in park.
Balls and sticks fly,
are caught,
fly, are lost —
and none of this matters less or more than any
other seasons, kisses or shadows:
tall ones cast by buildings
(fencing in the park that
fences in children
and fenced-in dogs)
or the dun shadows thrown by
the EXIT signs
on each floor of every building
in this heaving, hungry city.
Faces I’ll never see or see
again — all of us counted,
caught, and penciled in:
one, two, five, seven, six...
© Copyright, 2015,
Laure Anne Bosselaar. |