Posted in death, family, Home, Nature, Poetry

A Stranger At A Bus Stop

A traveler at a bus stop, miles away from home.
Waiting to clean his shoes, beer in hand because he
hasn’t had one for thirty days.
Life of a tugboat captain, he laughs.

A Mississippi accent rolls off his tongue as his
stories do,
Voice cracking like ears of corn off a stalk, his hands
wring the cold, paper-bagged can.
Reminiscing about bossy sisters and the deep blue
waters under his feet.

A broken hand here, a broken foot there, life on the
sea isn’t always fair.
From Victoria, Texas barges to Florida waters and
beyond, he’s traveled.
He grows quieter and quieter, tears forming in his
eyes, not for himself, but for his late father.

He whispers his tale to me, a complete stranger.
But no one really is a stranger, I guess, we’re just a
bunch of cold, bundled up passengers,
Waiting for the next bus to take us only God knows
where.

Photo: Stranger by Enot91 [Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic]

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