The builders construct the house:
Wood rising from weeds, dirt and stone.
Crack! Crack! The nail gun.
I’m waiting for the bus.
Four mid-afternoon drunks lean back on a rotted porch.
They toss beer cans, flip cigarettes.
No bus, yet, on an off-again, on-again rainy day.
A shingle carrier stands on the house’s rafters near the nail gunner.
The woman in the drunk group changes her seat.
I look for the Native American mother and son who moved nearby.
The bus rounds the corner.
I welcome it – no transmission worries while on a bus.
Car and truck transmissions’ clinking, rattling, and shaking scare me.
The bus growls away.
I look back at the drunks and builders,
No Native Americans.
I settle, illusory serenity ….
Eugene “Gene” Novogodsky, mid-September 2013