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In the Bus Station
H. Stanbrough

A young mother-to-be and her escort
have taken up position on a bench
where they sit tentatively, awaiting calls
to board for Bakersfield, Yuma, Lodi
and other stops as desolate as they.
The dating done, the parties left to sag,
reality has dawned, and in the wings
his shadow waits to say goodbye to hers.

They speak of destinations, but reserve
the right to keep emotion locked away;
inside, they know their final roads diverge
and will not meet. Their love was not true love,
but exciting rebellion, a gamble that failed to pay.
Her nerves are taut, her fingers working through
the others, twining and untwining, pale.
He jumps at the boarding call and promises

to stay in touch, then kisses her forehead,
and turns, a bit too quickly, to retreat
toward the double doors. She wipes her cheek
and whispers Goodbye Johnny at his back,
thinks his shoulders slump a bit too much,
his gait a fraction faster than a sadness,
then hefts her bag and walks through the other door
to board the bus, relief her only friend.