I am almost sure that it begins on the bus—
She sits alone, flanked by strangers;
Some stare at the facing seat back,
While other passengers
Imagine strange realms
Other times, alternate ancestries,
Distant worlds beckoning
From across vast gulfs.
(I hope she knows
There are tricks to this game;
Too many a slip between
Step and street
And all without instructions)
Something about the accordion doors of a bus,
The manner in which they fold
Open and closed; topology of intersection,
In each instance opening upon
Unforseen dis/locations
In space and time—
An unimagined street corner,
Quaint village, rustic seaport—
She thinks this bus might take her
Where she wants to go.
(I hope she knows that
Giving up is not the answer
To questions posed
By men and gods)
The card is drawn blind,
As it always is,
And the doors open,
A young woman stepping down
Onto every street,
Into every rainstorm
And into every tavern
With a swinging sign
Whose sigil spells something
Dark and unpleasant.
A rowdy, rough looking crowd
In this particular cantina—
Something wet moving in the alley behind,
Is it really where she wants to be?
Something about its seediness appealing;
But no, she'll travel on, following
The lure of novelty and improbability.
(Does she have a printed schedule,
Oft-folded, frequently consulted?
And has the driver warned her
About the final stop
At the end of the line?)
The bus stops here, also
At this gray and weedy depot,
So remote it is scarcely more
Than imaginary and that only on
Good days, where I await
Her hypothetical arrival.