Bus Stop On the Way to Eternity

(another poem about transportation for your amusement)

Waiting for a bus on a schedule that yawns

Even speeding on unknown freeways,

it moves like a lazy burro.

“2:30 at Workman Mill Road”

is written somewhere on a scroll.

And chronos is bent into inertia in my mind,

where split moments and infinity are united

by an unknowingness that defies all plans.

And rationality is pressed beyond the mundane,

beyond philosophy even, to where

all meaning converges at the bus stop –

by now, a pulsating icon

and a portal to other momentums.

All this, lest bus and bus stop

become a mortar and pestle

that turns recycled plastic benches into destiny

(or a long walk becomes a long wait with the illusion of motion).