GOING HOME
to
hear
your name
called aloud
as you stand alone
waiting for the number ten bus
makes
you
swivel
searching for
a man’s voice, his eyes
but you find only emptiness
he’s
far
away
you know that
he may be speaking
forming words in his distance but
he’s
not
here now
holding hands
standing beside you
as the number ten bus races
and
slides
splashing
mud on your
new blue cotton dress
making you swear at the driver
your
name –
Sweetness –
means nothing
as you climb aboard
tucking your anger underneath
this
hem
that drips
muddy brown
sadness on the floor
of a crowded Friday night bus
to
hear
your name
called aloud
by someone who’s there
is what’s really driving you home
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