She waits on the bus stop, and the rain

Is coming in. and she feels like she’s starring

In a poorly-scripted movie, and opening

Credits begin.

It says that she is the star, Starring.

She feels very f a r from being a star, she

Feels more like the stage crew, helping

It work and never acknowledged.

So she gets on her bus.

Children kick, and fuss on their

Mother’s breast but she chooses the seat

Behind all the rest, of the people.

Where’ll she go today?

A long-standing tradition of senseless

Wanderings and a cup of coffee that she

Always spills on the speed bump that’s

Coming. She’s always prepared even for her

Mistakes.

She has a lot of time to think.

And her button-down blouse looks disheveled

And angry. She doesn’t know where she got it

But she doubts that she’s bought it.

‘No one really cares about me,’

She always thinks and cries at night

After ride after ride on sticky

Seats (but it always beats her… other

Plans.)

‘Am I appreciated?’

If she wasn’t on her ride today,

Would’ve she just had enough

And finally died in her kitchen?

Alone?

She thinks back

To who she was

What seems like

A thousand years ago,

Pretty and young and skinny

And slim and fit and—

‘Disgusting.’ She thinks.

Disgusting it was.

Disgusting she is.

And Disgusting she

Always will be.

She watches a lot.

A young child falls and looks

For support or another way up and

His young-mother sneers, “You

fucking…”

She refuses to listen.

The sounds of the people are quite

Enchanting. Really. If you think about

It like that.

One day, some weeks later, someone

Had said, “Anyone sitting her, ma’am?”

And her face lit up she said “Please, please

Sit because no one has ever quiet sat here before

I would know because I’m here more often than

Not in the same old seat in the same old bus in the

Same old route in the same—old—life that I’m waiting

To loose on this bus. The old life, I’m trying to forget

And forgive (myself for doing the things that I’ve done

And the people I’ve seen and the things that I never

Even considered to stop.)” She stops, and rephrases:

“I am lonely.”

The man takes a seat and says, “Honey,

I’ve waited for you for oh-so-long, though

No one loved you on this earth, I will. And

I do and you’ve been patient and good and

Stood up for my trial (of life) and now the

Faithful will rise on the bus, today,

And the faithful will come with me,

Back home. To where you were born.

Not Toronto or Kentucky you’re going

Back home. Where no one will need

Their hairbrushes and combs.”

“I am faithful.” She says.

So many coffee stains on her shirt,

The people on the bus turn around and

Notice the woman who’s been riding for

So many years for the first time.

When you look in her eyes, you think

‘homely and sad.’

So now she is dead.

And the judgment came when

No one expected, the judgment

Was on the bus.

So now when you look in her eyes,

You think ‘what a lonely life she’s lived.’

Because she has no eyes to look at, only

Peace and joy and happiness finally.

And she doesn’t live in her apartment

Tucked away in the city.

So don’t try and send her I’m Sorry cards

Because that won’t get you very far.

You’ve done what you’ve done and

That’s all you can do. But maybe you can

Think things a little more through.

She’s not lonely. Anymore.