At the bus station
grizzled men eat Milkyways
watching
runaways squeak around
in too-tight jeans
and babies cry to Jackson Browne
while we all read the National Enquirer
and wait.

On the bus mothers shift
bags and kids around in messy piles
the empty wrappers tell stories
while Willie Nelson competes
with static to sing in rhythm
with windshield wipers
and cigarette butts
tally the miles.

The world is unwrapped and unspun as a ball of yarn
before my eyes
it unravels
spreading then and wide, and then
as a piece of paper, a blue sheet
it stretches in front of forever
for a moment it becomes a water
and every step forward leaves less of me showing
until I disappear
and no bubbles disturb the surface.