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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