Reflection

A broken woman stood beside me in the bus stop shelter
her head in a sling.
I was humming a tune I learned in nursery school
and I caught the hint of something
musky and cheap: desperation,
or bad perfume.

She grumbled mumbled words of revolution,
cold burgers, CIA spies
and her dead mother.
I wonder if she had a moment, one day,
when the morning sun brought the
gift of dimentia?
Was there a moment when she,
suddenly aware of missed opportunities
and overwhelming odds,
fell deep into the muck of
introverted, oblivious bliss?

I reached out and placed my
palm flat against the glass, felt
the cold, smooth surface leeching
memories and speeches and false hopes
up through my bloodstream
and towards my own bandaged brain.

Waiting for the bus to come
we stared, unblinking, at each other.

10.16.02 -erm

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