It’s 3am.
My head and my heart are pounding,
And the world is still swaying
from a yesterday that still hasn’t ended.
I’m waiting at the bus stop.
My bag anchors me.
Its weight running through my bones.
The air is damp, heavy.
And morning dew begins to settle
as if I too have become part of the scenery.
The moon peeks out from behind the station,
Its light drowned out by cars screeching by.
We stand together—
a quiet tribe of budget travelers:
wild hair, dark eyes, makeup askew.
All of the same mind,
Is there time for coffee?
The shop across the street taunts us.
A few, more prepared, sip smugly
Then the bus arrives-
Its neon green familiar now,
An old friend.
He comes every day,
no matter the hour,
no matter who I am when I board,
and carries me off toward somewhere else,
somewhere new and full of potential.
We stumble in, collapse into seats—
phones charging, headphones in.
The engine groans to life.
My head leans against the window,
waiting for the rhythm to rock me under.
Lights off –
And we submit.
…
I stir
Time has slipped its grip
Yet the world demands attention.
I try to resist
Hoping to rejoin the dull hum of dreaming
But I can no longer stop the light seeping through.
Begrudgingly I blink away the sleep and I am dazed.
The sun rising over the dolomites.
Snowcapped peaks and crystal waters
The whole world gilded.
Is this the “Sunkissed sanctuary” described in poetry?
Where Catallus sung in glowing verse?
I remember a line I once read:
“a lake of opal waters that never ends, but silently became the sky”
I didn’t think it was real.
But here it is-
Outside a bus window.
I took this ride to save money.
Maybe the planet, too.
Six hours instead of two.
Dodging airports blur into the same white glow:
shops, perfumes, polished and perfected distractions
everything designed to make you forget the price you are actually paying.
Still
It is easy to forget
BUY ME.
NEED ME.
BECOME ME.
The noise is constant.
And life:
Life is fast
Life is vast
Life is short
We are here for all the wonders the world has to offer.
What happens when we take
And take
And take?
What happens when beauty survives only in poetry?
Where all that is left outside the window is shadow?
When the trees that painted the lake fall,
When the sheets of tremulous silver tarnish,
When orchids burn black,
instead of gold?
So when the bus turns the corner,
or the plane begins to land—
Look up .
Look carefully.
And remember who is really paying the price.
