With love

Poetry

Bus Ride

Back in Hollywood by the Valero where the car broke down and oil poured

Like blood; people are sighing from traffic and sleeping from working too hard, and putting on their face

Because I think he is going to break up with me tonight ad preparing fisticuffs and turning over in their

Ugly petulance because the line cook added onions

when they specifically ordered without.
Today, the bus was forty five minutes late

and it shone emergence and some

knaves where shivering to get away from their own

squabble. In the boom of population growth, nothing along the Eastern

Side of Los Angeles, nothing boomed for me.

Dedicated to a slow crawl of tireless ennui

though I break for jumping from a moving caravan

and fail to get off at the right stop—there are no

sloven welcome’s  or how do you like your room's

 if I never wanted to be a part of this crowded game in the first place.

If our Sunday evening meals came without light,

Who is to say they hold the keys in their hands?

You sit down, take off your shoes, compose a strongly worded email,

Take notes of the cosntruction on Sweetzer Ave, pick the mold off your

Unrealized feelings, take two with every bite, finally,

Sit back and relax.

There is no continuation of dreams, the whole of yesterday seems like

A distant cousin you see only on Christmas – still fresh with burning disagreements

Though they do not matter any longer. You sit down and look across the room

And somehow have realized the whole of tomorrow spanned perfectly in your mind and the world is stopping and everyone else is winning and your parents are divorcing and you’re fired and someone

Has called you to tell you terrible news.

Elizabeth Hsieh