How much longer can time go on twiddling its thumbs as it sits in the waiting room
of a bus depot
not far from the terminal lunch counter where two cascades of grape punch splash
in perpetuity,
while the hot dogs turn clockwise, some blistered and charred, some just beginning
to sweat,
by coincidence on the busiest night of the year because every so often it wants to be
with strangers
all bundled up and laden down with shopping bags of boxes wrapped and ribboned
for family,
until one by one, or often in groups of two or three under the bare light, they shuffle
out of sight
only to be replaced by more travelers, who stare in anticipation at the ceiling speaker
for a voice
grown so familiar with the notion of hours and minutes it is now completely devoid
of tone
to bark out arrivals and departures long into the night until at some point everybody
is en route,
be it a twenty minute ride to relatives on the outskirts of the city or a five-day mecca
back home.