I feel alive in bus stations.
While waiting on a wooden bench,
Chipping at the paint
In the quite anticipation of flight.
The exhaust smell mixes with bacon grease
From the deli next door,
As the buses heave on the pavement.

I choose my seat carefully
Watch the mountains turn blue with distance.
The bus expects nothing from me,
It won’t ask for an explanation.
I can lean my head against the window,
And watch the sun set orange through my eyelids.

Sitting among strangers in a tandem-flight.
We all have stations we’re trying to leave behind.
The  engine knows and will whisper to me,
In steady vibrations,
Rumbling through the vinyl seat.
I will not easily slip away,
On this bus or on any other.

Mohonk Tower is the spindle
Around which I am strung.