way out

03.24.98

the angry jangling of the bus
mimics our silent tirade of shameful decline
eyes unable to meet
strangers determined to remain
racial tension merely a prelude to
our ignorance


a mass not huddled infected by
poverty bearing now long worn regret and desperation
to greasy-spoon diners
and hospital wards, we ride to
corporate mail rooms, to America dreary
still we ride on


whither we come from it matters not
this bus, it denies us the honesty of our work
are we reaching for more
or are we perpetuating
our degredation in the dark stumbling
for a way out



© 1998, TJ Brumfield