Transit Stop Dreams


While sitting,
Waiting,
Dreaming,
He wanders in and about old addresses,
Still trying to keep the past…
The past.

Even with his ubiquitous dark glasses,
Worn everywhere,
Day,
Night,
Even sleeping.
The neon-lit past
Refuses to stay…
The past.

Sometimes in his daylight dreaming,
The beds are unmade
Still warm to the touch
With bodies whose backs always
Face each other.

Occasionally…
His hallway night light,
Peering from the floor,
Like smiling Cheshire cat eyes in the fog,
Dare he venture further into midnight kitchen trips,
Where a faucet drips—‘til turned off,
A refrigerator hums—‘til doors are pulled open
And slammed.

Quite often…
He stumbles into old school days late,
Where few seem to acknowledge him.
Where he sits,
Adjusts his dark glasses,
Remains sequestered
And invisible.

Usually…
The movie house in his smiley dream
Gets him laughing
With old grainy films of his ancient past,
The carefree times of youth dancing absently
Through funhouse reflections of silly freedom,
Scratches and spliced together breaks always a bonus.

Never…
Do his nocturnal ventures bring him
Face to face with the him of his bus stop dreaming,
Here, the warrior of extraordinary hope
Leaps over obstacles and burdens,
Always aware the weight of hope’s baggage
Remains feather light,
Unattached,
Floating behind as but shadow,
Willing to vanish in the light.

Always…
He looks forward to this quiet time,
The often-long wait of his transit stop to everywhere.