This is another poetic event recently witnessed.
apparently only half full -- a welcome
circumstance for the putative passenger
with cumbersome luggage. We embark
after the meticulous inspection
of our tickets by the driver
dressed to launch a military coup.
I walk up the aisle slowly looking for
the opportunity to sit next to a
pleasingly plump stray woman who
is not articulating a subtle snarl
amid the passengers guarding their
solitary seats like dogs defending
territory. She could take the edge off.
Ah, whatever, there's a seat I can
have all to myself. I put my stuff
down there and sit next to the aisle to
favor newcomers with my canine stare.
The bus moves and the driver
abruptly turns off the dim lighting
as a signal for everyone to just
go to sleep. The bus lurches as a
boat in response to the groans
of the diesel and I move to the
window seat to watch the impromptu
scenes of truth-in-the-flesh theater
played out in the streets of the city.
We turn a corner and a drama is
acted out in the space of seconds.
Two men dressed in expensive
business suits are about to kiss,
their lips inching closer captured in that
romantic magnetism a la Spencer
Tracy and what's her name, the eyes
locked in the peaceful expectation
of uncharted bliss. I call them Fred and
John. John's eyes suddenly harden
and focus on space away from Fred.
A perceptive wave passes as a
revolution across his face. His
features harden into the neutrality
of stone. He turns away from Fred
saying nothing in a seizure of sobriety
and the realization that he is a man.
His body language articulates a
clear statement: "I am not a fag."
He is turning his back on Fred who
is looking on in anguish, his wide
eyes shouting, "John, what's wrong?
John what are you doing? John! John!"
John walks away getting about his
business in his expensive business suit
with the cold anonymity of brushing off
a panhandler. Fred is devastated by
the denial of love, the betrayal of
a commitment as if the commitment
were written into a contract. He is
accustomed to such commitments.
The "i's" were dotted. The "t's" were
crossed. He had John dead to rights.
I see the text of the contract
scrolling down his wide sorrow flooded
eyes as pain gushed from his suit.
I shout a silent cheer for John and
am struck by deep pity for Fred since I
know his pain so very well. He was
being denied love after traveling so far
to find it. I go to sleep for the journey home.
I wake. "Passengers going on to Canton,
Massilon, Akron, Cleveland, meet your
bus at door number four. West bound
passengers to Columbus, Dayton,
Indianapolis, St. Louis, meet the
Kansas City schedule at door number eight
at midnight.
And thank you for going Greyhound.
pjk
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 656 times
Written on 2010-01-22 at 19:47
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Greyhound Revelation
Finally, the bus has arrivedapparently only half full -- a welcome
circumstance for the putative passenger
with cumbersome luggage. We embark
after the meticulous inspection
of our tickets by the driver
dressed to launch a military coup.
I walk up the aisle slowly looking for
the opportunity to sit next to a
pleasingly plump stray woman who
is not articulating a subtle snarl
amid the passengers guarding their
solitary seats like dogs defending
territory. She could take the edge off.
Ah, whatever, there's a seat I can
have all to myself. I put my stuff
down there and sit next to the aisle to
favor newcomers with my canine stare.
The bus moves and the driver
abruptly turns off the dim lighting
as a signal for everyone to just
go to sleep. The bus lurches as a
boat in response to the groans
of the diesel and I move to the
window seat to watch the impromptu
scenes of truth-in-the-flesh theater
played out in the streets of the city.
We turn a corner and a drama is
acted out in the space of seconds.
Two men dressed in expensive
business suits are about to kiss,
their lips inching closer captured in that
romantic magnetism a la Spencer
Tracy and what's her name, the eyes
locked in the peaceful expectation
of uncharted bliss. I call them Fred and
John. John's eyes suddenly harden
and focus on space away from Fred.
A perceptive wave passes as a
revolution across his face. His
features harden into the neutrality
of stone. He turns away from Fred
saying nothing in a seizure of sobriety
and the realization that he is a man.
His body language articulates a
clear statement: "I am not a fag."
He is turning his back on Fred who
is looking on in anguish, his wide
eyes shouting, "John, what's wrong?
John what are you doing? John! John!"
John walks away getting about his
business in his expensive business suit
with the cold anonymity of brushing off
a panhandler. Fred is devastated by
the denial of love, the betrayal of
a commitment as if the commitment
were written into a contract. He is
accustomed to such commitments.
The "i's" were dotted. The "t's" were
crossed. He had John dead to rights.
I see the text of the contract
scrolling down his wide sorrow flooded
eyes as pain gushed from his suit.
I shout a silent cheer for John and
am struck by deep pity for Fred since I
know his pain so very well. He was
being denied love after traveling so far
to find it. I go to sleep for the journey home.
I wake. "Passengers going on to Canton,
Massilon, Akron, Cleveland, meet your
bus at door number four. West bound
passengers to Columbus, Dayton,
Indianapolis, St. Louis, meet the
Kansas City schedule at door number eight
at midnight.
And thank you for going Greyhound.
pjk
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 656 times
Written on 2010-01-22 at 19:47
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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