On an empty bus at night
the windows chatter at me.
Like grumpy old men
their feeble voices
are hard to understand.
We talk about the weather,
the cold chilling them
and wind shaking their bones.
They complain about the road
being so rough and bumpy
shaking us back and forth.
Mostly, though, we talk about
what it's like to be lonely
on a bus after dark.
They describe traveling the same bumps
over and over,
monotonously circling;
the same route every night.
Occasionally,
they forget what they were saying,
and go back and repeat themselves.
Lawrence R. Daffner, 4/94