She carries conversations
like a tissue in her purse.
She's someone different every time
and pretends it's versatility.
But it's always on her mind,
that she's never been to Oregon
or seen the golden gate
and she'll prob'ly never see all 50 states.
Because she's living in a world
that revolves around a stereo
and four inconstant walls,
a different room for every month
'till versatility calls.
And there are four new chunks of plaster
for her to call her own
that collect the constant ringing
of the unattended telephone.
And she'll still stare out the window
of every broken home
and smile at the sunset
then realize that she's alone.
Still the ending is a sad one,
as it is in every poem.
And she'll still be reflecting
when the sun comes up,
she'll still persist to wonder
"how much will be enough?"
for a one-way greyhound bus. |
Submission Name: One-way to Oregon
