There’s ten seats, molded plastic. Half are filled,
heavy bodies, faces drab, expressions like they’re
going nowhere soon. Across one wall, the flaking
mural of a bus. Outside, cornfields, town, obligatory
Main Street, hardware store, boarded-up cinema,
nothing worth staying for. In a rusty hopper,
yellowing schedules, no place worth going to.
Crackly voice over the P.A. says, ‘The 10.40’s
been delayed. No ETA” Small town bus station:
even time doesn’t want to be here.
About the Author:
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in The Lyric, Vallum and the science fiction anthology, “The Kennedy Curse” with work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge, Southern California Review and the Oyez Review.