Page 6 of 6

GOING HOME

to
hear
your name
called aloud
as you stand alone
waiting for the number ten bus
makes
you
swivel
searching for
a mans voice, his eyes
but you find only emptiness


hes
far
away
you know that
he may be speaking
forming words in his distance but
hes
not
here now
holding hands
standing beside you
as the number ten bus races
and
slides
splashing
mud on your
new blue cotton dress
making you swear at the driver


your
name
Sweetness
means nothing
as you climb aboard
tucking your anger underneath
this
hem
that drips
muddy brown
sadness on the floor
of a crowded Friday night bus


to
hear
your name
called aloud
by someone whos there
is whats really driving you home




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