Bus Stop Story by Diana Rosen

The first thing I notice is the fine line of the beard
outlining his strong chin up to the side of his shiny bald pate.
He walks restlessly, rubbing a forefinger along his left temple.
Next to me another man poses the usual bus stop questions:
Has the Number 50 come? You been waiting long? You work
around here? The sound! The sound! Searing right through
me it starts like a hum then goes higher, louder, from ah ah ah
ah to AYE AYE AYE AYE, the man with the fine line beard
flails his arms like a bird ready to soar, whirls and whirls
then falls into the street like a heavy boulder tumbling
down the side of a mountain. The questioner and I rush to him.
Still flaying, his right hand clenches my left wrist like a crushing
vise. We turn them over on their sides now, the questioner says calmly,
his cigarette dangling from his matter-of fact mouth, no more
putting sticks in their mouths to hold down the tongue.
As we roll the man onto his side, his hand drops heavily from mine,
his huge shaking body becomes quiet. I’ve called the paramedics
someone else says, they’ll be here soon, and with that,
the chartreuse-yellow truck rolls up and medics step out
and into their official roles. The Number 50 arrives and I climb aboard;
the questioner remains with the epileptic. I can’t shake the sound
or the feel of his grip on me. A few weeks later,
the man with the fine line beard is back at my bus stop.
I rub my left wrist. Our eyes do not meet.

# # #
Diana Rosen’s recent publications for poetry include or are upcoming in The Poetry Box Anthology of Love Poems, Fat Damsel 11, www.fragilelilacpoetry.com, and the Altadena Poetry Review. Two of her poems were selected to hang with art selected for the month-long Day of the Dead celebration at the San Juan Capistrano Library.

Photo: Abbie Bernet

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