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![]() Debra Marquart Poem for My Mother on Her Birthday -- September 27, 2007 |
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Greyhound Days
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because your mother
is the typhoid Mary of travel, because lightning,
blizzards, cyclones, everything but locusts
plague her travel days, because that one time
in some pilot-error, failed
engine part, or threat of nuclear disaster
necessitated an overnight stay, she will not fly. Too often she recalls the cold shuttle ride
to the strange hotel, no pj’s, toothbrush,
clean undies, or sleep, where all night she
watched the green hinge click of digits until
the three am wake-up call. Besides, why drive to
a westbound plane for
go east to for her, and this day
after Christmas, the drop-off drive to the truck stop
terminal on the unlit edge of town, where we stamp
our feet and puff, waiting for the Greyhound
in the snowy dark with the goth girls
and the tattooed boys, with the gaunt-cheeked,
the luggage-less, the chain smoker, and
that one young mother who’s been criss-crossing
the country with her two toddlers
and a colicky baby since your own Greyhound
days. You realize at the purr of the diesel
engine approaching, at the grinding downshift
of gears and the chirp of airbrakes, before
the door folds unfolding and passengers disembark,
you realize, that you do not want
to let your mother go alone into this high
northern night through mountain passes,
frozen wheat fields, and oil rigs pumping
their thin elbows in the darkness. But she grabs the nearest passenger, the scruffy-bearded,
nose-pierced boy with jet-black hair
dyed just like yours was in the eighties
and begins to drill him— Is it warm on the bus? Are there seats available? Is the driver nice? —which he answers, tossing his smoke to the sidewalk
in a splash of sparks which makes you realize
your mother would be an excellent
person to have along at a rock concert or
the holocaust or any other natural disaster,
this survivor, who grabs her floral bag to board
not looking back, as you watch her through
the smoky glass, moving down the aisle,
checking each seat row by row, with those
eyes that always saw everything, until
she chooses the best one, left hand side, near
the driver, and stashes her bag overhead, never
once looking back at you, down below in
the cold, waving goodbye, be careful, safe travels, love you, even as the driver settles in and she leans
forward to chat, dark silhouette of her
hand on the headrest, even as he grinds the
gears, undoes the brake, turns off the interior
lights and the bus jerks to a start, you realize
you are still waving at the darkness, waving
at the darkness now in the spot where you imagine she must be sitting.
--Debra Marquart |
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