And she sits there…by G. Mramor


And she sits there and takes the bumps and the shakes as they come, part of the machine that drags the bus onward, part of the streets that make the bus bump and shake, part of the city that forgets its people. A little girl in her lap small with thin arms and a gaunt face, her skin is pale and all her bones can be seen, she sucks her thumb and then opens her mouth and speaks as if she were ten years old but barely does she look three. A dark boy is tied to her leg with his long legs in a coil underneath him and with his thumb in his mouth looks through the many legs to the young girl across with her chest out for the rest, he sucks his thumb and he wets his pants and he stares at the young girl’s breasts and all the milk to grow his little worm. A man a cross of many races, he sits next to her staring out the window, his prim lips shadow-smacking the lyrics to a beat that bellows through his ears. And she sits there taking the bumps and the shakes as they come, part of the machine that drags the bus onward, part of the streets that make the bus bump and shake, part of the city that forgets its people. Her face is round and under her second chin there whiskers lick her thigh-neck, her face though soft seems made of stone, her brows are amber and her eyes are blue and at certain bumps, in consummation with the sun, there is a gold glint uncovered, from a heart sunk in time, when she was growing, poor but happy, before she saw what men can become, and how little family means when caught up in a rage, from something simple become a fiend, when her face hardened before it could ever become soft, and before there was a sun burning of dreams and boys and before there was a moon calling out serene a woman to become, before all the phantasy of youth could take hold and turn her heart up to the dreams of youth, before, there was a gold glint in her blue eyes when they met the sun. And she sits there taking the bumps and the shakes as they come, part of the machine that drags the bus onward, part of the streets that make the bus bump and shake, part of the city that forgets its people, thinking nothing anymore.

Advertisements

enter the discussion:

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s