True Tales from the Bus Depot

The bus stop black-top is so damn depressing – between the vulcanized gum and the nearly unrelenting stream of cigarette butts – it’s all departures ’cause all love must end sometime (and trust me, it’s never quite enough). Sometimes the cars wave bye as they drive away. Other times a phone hangs tightly, covering the face – reminding every rider just a little bit too late that they probably should have stayed back further from the distance that they designated safe. The bus stop black-top’s pitch black heart has eroded, been paved over, been demolished, been paved over. The three-walled outpost waiting says, do not stay over – they will see you and it’s colder, lighter sleep than you should know. Another greyhound shuffles past us, ambles down the road and makes a lurching leftward lean-turn that makes me stop my breath. And not waiting is some black top somewhere and the thought of steps of tiptoed greyhounds sneaking over pavement in the dead of night. It’s the endings that kill me, really.

~ by perfectionatrix on October 16, 2012.

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