the anxiety of the rural bus stop

it's not so much the nervous strain
of waiting for a bus that never comes
this bus comes alright
right on schedule
well -- fifteen or twenty minutes late
this being America --
but it passes you by
rolls right on through blowing out fumes

o the heartstopping horror!

and this bus is not a pretty bus
gaily painted, tinkling jolly Caribbean
tunes, shoulder to comfortable shoulder
with patient, congenial riders

this bus is ugly, a grey behemoth
snorting noxious fumes

it runs right through the squalid
little town, where you and your wretched family
are huddled, immigrants, on the corner

miles from the nearest subway stop
miles from the nearest train
miles from anywhere
for that matter

an evil dead place, nobody around
a place of ugly death, where flightless
giant birds eat mud for breakfast
the hell of Ereshkigal

the bus passes you by
and there are no taxis
no telephones, no hotels
(this was in the time before cellphones)

and you're stuck
a million miles from the metropolis
stranded in rural America
amid unsympathetic police