Two Sons, One Dirty, One Beaten (a sestina)
In the back of the bus the violence is unheard over the growl of the engine.
Seat across from me- He has long fingernails. I don’t trust him, picks his nose with them then smacks his son.
I am trying to kill him through some kind of telepathy.
Seat in front of me- says “sleepy” in markered art graffiti.
Seat behind me- the self proclaimed bathroom supervisor opens the door, sets the seat down for ladies.
Bathroom supervisor sits with a teenage mother. “Your baby has a lot of hair,” I say. She replies, “Yeah, gave me heartburn.”
The desert sun screams through bus windows landing on my pale arm. It burns
It’s square shape onto me. The window must be as hot as the engine.
The battered son watches as people pass down the isle. He pulls his gun (thumb and pointer finger) and shoots everyone, even the knitting lady.
He doesn’t get away with it for long before-SMACK- “Sit down before he hits the brakes boy!”
Game Over. The son shrivels in his seat out of my view. I turn back to the seat in front of me and read “sleepy” graffiti.
I speak to the shriveled boy in his seat. Tell him not everyone is like his father through Greyhound bus telepathy.
I want to cry with him. But who will ever benefit from silent empathy?
The teenage mother tells me she doesn’t know the bathroom supervisor. He is following her and the child who gave her heartburn.
Bathroom supervisor is a large Mexican with gray hair at his ears and arms full of tattoo graffiti.
He doesn’t hear us talking. He’s fallen asleep to the pulse of the engine.
Heartburn baby gurgles, sputters, cries a little. I ask her if she needs a break; she hands me her nine-month-old son.
He is dirty: black feet, yellow ears, smells sour, like rotting citrus. He looks at me face blank like, “Who is this lady?”
Bathroom supervisor opens the bathroom door, steps in preparing it for a young lady.
Battered son shoots her with his gun, then shoots his father and watches him die through violent telepathy.
I smell the baby’s hair; think of how he might smell if he were my son,
wonder if a newborn’s head full of hair always causes heartburn.
All the characters back here are acting in a silent movie, over the pulsing reel of the bus engine.
I look at my feet and watch the Gatorade and Arrowhead bottles roll back and forth with the bus. It’s beautiful garbage graffiti.
Pull a marker from my pack; I think I’ll write a poem on the bus seat instead of graffiti.
Bathroom supervisor flirts with me thinking he’s a tattooed savior for all the ladies.
He tells me his stop is Vegas. The teenage mother’s terror will end there, with the death of the engine.
I foresee a safe trip for her and her baby. All the way to Montana with my positive telepathy.
No more bathroom supervisors, just safety, although maybe too much bus station food and heartburn.
By Montana, I wonder the smell of her son.
One dirty, one broken, one loved, one hated- the life of a Greyhound son.
Battered boy walks up to me and smiles, his hand on my arm. I search his skin for bruise graffiti.
He is standing in the aisle. Even I fear his father and his blows that must burn
hotter on heart than skin. I think someday this boy will bloody his lady.
I foresee the cyclical violence through flashing red telepathy.
Battered boy falls backward as brakes are slammed. Bus driver cuts ignition. Smacks are loud with no engine.
Passenger faces turn toward the father in accusing graffiti.
Ladies shake fingers, others speak in Greyhound bus heartburn telepathy.
Battered son screams as father picks him up by the arm SMACK it echoes in engine silence.