terminal destination
the bus station
is more an outpost
than a terminal.
small and grimy
linoleum like plaque
on decaying teeth.
six molded plastic chairs
huddled like old men
awaiting nursing home death.
it is empty except for
the attendant and I
and a vending machine
harboring inedibles.
outside the plate glass,
the Windmill Motel,
the Industrial Strip,
trucking companies
all of it entwined
with the interstate,
asphalt and concrete,
weed-choked and sprinkled
with broken glass
like blood diamonds.
I slot a dime in
the gumball machine,
get a handful of
stale Chiclets
like chewing teeth.
the lobby’s desolation
amazes me.
citizens should be
lined up for miles
awaiting the first bus
out of here.
can I help you?
the attendant asks.
my continued presence
upsets her, disrupts
her reading, a book
she holds low
making it impossible
for me to discern
the title and author.
I recite the bus number
and ask for an ETA,
and she tells me
the bus is not due
until tomorrow evening.
her expression is
as difficult to read
as the cover
to her novel.
she refuses eye contact
when I tell her
my lover is on the bus
and after all this time
I get to see her again.
I glance at the calendar
on the wall behind her,
yellowed paper boasts
the wrong month of
a different year.
outside, I spit the
hardened gum into
the weeds, breathe in
the refinery-scented air,
everywhere the rush
and roar of mobility.
I take the long walk
back to the soup kitchen,
thinking how strange
no matter what
bus number I give
it is never scheduled
to arrive until
tomorrow.
©2023 Karl Koweski All rights reserved.
Karl Koweski is a displaced Chicagoan, now living on top of a mountain in rural Alabama. His poetry and stories have been published throughout the small press and collected in several volumes. He’s been on a bit of a sabbatical these last five years but has finally gotten back into the swing of things.