Two Mamas and a Greyhound



As the bus heads towards the Tunnel,
I am reading over my resume,
trying to keep a straight face while
memorizing the things I supposedly accomplished.
For the past ten minutes, two thirty-something women
seated on the opposite ends of the bus
are engaged in an ecstatic screaming match.
They call each other "mama,"
Which in their mouths gets a hint of urban tenderness.
"Almost home, mama!" cries one;
"New York City, mama!" echoes the other.
"Seven years, mama, seven years!"
They break open huge bags of chips and a
twelve-pack of CVS cola.
Walking down the aisle towards each other,
they part the bus, like a sea,
sharing their bounty with the astonished riders.
"Where were you all this time?" yells the driver;
"Elmira Correctional Facility!" they sing in unison.
As the Hound pulls into the Tunnel,
the mamas talk of going to see the Knicks,
buying hot-dogs at a stand,
and seeing someone they call Ricki.
As the bus comes to a stop,
Applause fill the air.
Mamas are home.