Bus Stop

There is a painting

I see

At my bus stop.

A painting.

Of a woman.

Her eyes

Are as black

As the night sky.

Void

Of any stars.

As if they never existed.

And

She stares at me.

And

I stare right back.

I find

that

It’s so easy to get lost in them.

Like a diver.

In the Marianas Trench

However….

I don’t find anything….

So why?

Why?

Why does she look at me like that?

Why?

Why Do I look back?

What is the point!?

To give her such an expression?

One

Of infinite wisdom of a crone.

And

The innocence of a child.

I’m surrounded by the smell of perfume

of the old lady sitting in the chair.

Talking in Spanish in a hushed tone.

Worried.

I might overhear her conversation

And the SCREAMS!!!

Of the child, whose mother won’t let him explore

Who gives me a look of defense.

As if I’m “judging” her parenting skills.

However.

There is a sense of calm, in the Madness

That blends in with the old lady.

And.

The screaming child.

The sense of calm

That overshadows the painting

With the old man

And.

The painting

Of a house on the lake that overlooks a sunset of red and yellow.

That makes the upset child.

And.

Paranoid lady.

Bearable.

And then I realize, as I hear my mom, honk her car horn

I am done.

With my day.

While the painted woman stays there

Her day, not yet done.

Her calming nature, her eyes,

that keep the madness, at bay.

Waiting…

Until the last bus leaves, signaling the end of the day.

I imagine that when the last light is turned off.

She closes her eyes.

Waiting….

For the morning sun to wake her up

As she waits for us.

At the bus stop.