Scraps of paper from advertisements,
letters of warning or consolation, maybe.
White, blue, some yellow too.
The sun isn't up, but we are.
I stand at the corner away from the scraps,
away from the screams, away from the woman angry about a past
and the people she can not fix.
"Fuck that bitch!
Fuck that hoe!
I'll kill them all!"
She yells to no one while sitting on the metal bus bench.
(At least this bus stop has seats.
At least this bus stop has coverings.)
The outbursts are nothing new to me.
A large city has many of them daily.
I've become accustomed to
the drugs,
to the mental blocks,
and the poverty.
"They killed my son.
They killed my sister."
She continues as I stay my distance.
As I try not look.
As I try not to make things worse...for me.
The projection transports me to when I am young.
The muscle memory is always there.
A tinge of knotted stomach,
A rise of blood pressure from the fear of the unexpected.
I can hear my Mother in the kitchen saying similar
hate filled statements through her slurred
drunken words.
I know things can change
in an instant.
The boiling pot isn't unable to jump,
to attack,
to ruin my face.
But this woman isn't drunk.
She's perhaps not even homeless.
Just please don't get on the same bus.
I was cutting the time close, rushing to not be late.
Anticipating my day,
brushing aside the worries of needing to pay bills
and finding something to eat.
I see the lights from down the darkened street.
Some relief.
We must keep moving.
Please hurry.
"Fuck this bitch!
Fuck them all!
Stupid hoe."
Dirty sweatpants with hearts,
a reusable grocery bag knotted at top,
she stands.
Onto my same bus,
along my same journey.
Her volume has decreased by half,
but mumbling still continues.
The ramblings of immense confusion and pain.
No where to release the anger without the threat of being thrown out and discredited.
I hear the crack in her voice for just a moment.
As I sit a seat behind,
I see the Winnie the Pooh plastic charm bracelet along with other beads attached to her ankle.
Both ankles bound with decorations or perhaps shackles from the past she'll never forget.
I hear the sadness that fuels the ongoing outbursts.
Does the bus driver not say anything because of lack of experience
or just the opposite?
A bus driver told a rambling man to get off just the other night.
He was drunk.
Drinking to forget,
but memories flood in
like a heavy liquid,
drowning their compacity
to see new surroundings.
But this is day.
This is a new start,
a new person,
different situation.
Is she sober or somber minded?
They say anger is a cover up emotion.
They say there's a root.
Does she know the fear her anger causes?
Does she notice the people moving away?
They say we're responsible for ourselves;
yet, we're social species.
Who determines the place & time to be tumultuous,
to let it all out like spilled milk?
Nourish my bones with the awakening.
Who allows the yells from top of my lungs and the
heaving of the sorrow?
Mature my mind with the realization.
Who does medication help,
is it for the speaker or
the one's who refused to listen?
Could therapy run by the government that wrecked us fix this?
Could a community curated by the government that raped us cure this?
It's only then I hear it plain as day.
The woman exclaims not completely under her breath,
not worried about who hears,
the crux to all of this:
"I wish I was white."
