December 20, 2012


The express bus
speeds east,
its numb riders
bearing gifts,
Beethoven's ninth
thundering through
my earbuds.
The baby,
one seat ahead,
looks at me
with his big,
baby blues,
his weary mother rocking
to her own sad song,
just relieved to be
on the express, to make
our Hollywood connection.
For now, we sit at peace
with the tired pilgrims,
rolling over hard road,
our cold walk-up waiting,
its ragged string
of Christmas bulbs
lighting the window,
showing the way.