The Bus Ride to Indifference

I sit on the sunny side,
no shade to hide the flashlight glare
in my eyes. I turn away from the
intruding fireball and see a pretty
lady next to me, dark as night. She
sits quietly, hands folded, rubbing
her arthritic fingers.
I can sympathize.

She’s from Jamaica, Queens; a
neighborhood in New York City.
We both mumble something
unintelligible as we pass a patch
of pink petunias laying in a heart
shaped bed by the road. It teases
Valentine’s Day. We laugh at petunias
in February; must be Florida.

The yawners are waking to stumble
from the bus doors into Terminal A.
The dozers hang out, waiting for
the next stop – terminal B. That’s “B”
not “D” as in – damn it! I was supposed
to get off at Terminal A. The pretty lady
says, “No worry mahn, da bus
go back ‘round.”

She rises from her seat as the bus
stops at Terminal B. I’m sad. I feel
like we met in a poem; the quiet
of the ride, the shared pleasure of
the petunias, the canyon of our color,
bridged by sharing life’s flinders, and
the indifference of deep roots in
different worlds. I’ll miss you Jamaica.