The End of the Line

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Beeping, the bus lift lowers

And they shuffle on board

Pushing their walker trolleys.

A rancid smell accompanies them.

Their clothes are worn, mismatched,

Long skirts over trousers,

Coats held together with safety pins,

Hats or kerchiefs covering stringy white hair,

Faces lined and whiskery.


Strapped down in their trolley baskets,

Sweaters, shoes, underwear, flasks,

Toothpaste, vitamins, family photographs,

Notebooks, bottles, gloves, blankets,

Remnants of a shattered life.

They suffer with obesity, swollen ankles,

Arthritis, paralysis and Parkinson's.


What troubles or misfortunes brought them here,

On this journey to the end of the line,

To queue for a meal and a bed

At the shelter next to the topless bar?


I ring the bell, disembark,

Turn into my comfortable home.

The bus roars on,

To the end of the line.

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    About this Entry

    This page contains a single entry by Alakananda Ma published on February 14, 2019 4:43 PM.

    Barefoot on Thirteenth Street was the previous entry in this blog.

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