Bus Station 6:55 AM

I am bound to this fate for the next thirty five minutes; that is, to sit staring at the cinder block and ceder alcove watching the cars go by.

Yesterday, I had a car. Theoretically, I still do, but the hood is smashed up against te winshield and the licence plate is in the back seat surrounded by sweaters, novels, iced tea bottles and a plair of lizard skin cowboy boots; a gift to my mother during my parents courtship. Pregnancy widened her feet, now they are mine.

Had I died, what would they have gathered about me from my car? My Coltrane CDs, a never opened copy of the Bhagavad Gita, a pink, green and gray striped French Connection sweater that smelled of Lili Bermuda Oleander Perfume, red lace underwear kicked under the passenger sea in an encounter i don't quite remember, tubes of lipstick, and me hunched over in my green skirt, blue belt, yellow camisole and gray sweater that i traded for a ten dollar bill some years ago in westfield with identical rips in the elbows of each arm. My feet sockless in black Doc Marten Shoes, my ankle bruised and swelling as it is now. A gold cross around my neck whith a rose where the beams meet. Do roses grow in the desert? Who would ever think that crucifixion could become decoration.


So here I am on this misty morning in this gray town waiting for the bus, feeling a bit like Lewis' protagonist in the Great Divorce, which is perhaps my favourite book in the world, but I know that where I'm going there will be no bright spirits to hold me up and no one to tell me that I was created for infinite happiness that i can step into at any moment. There is only Algebra.

I can see the headlights through the mist! Fare thee well!