By Holly Woodward

Woman behind me on the bus would not stop
talking to the stranger who surely regrets
that she sat next to her. She speaks,
then sobs, then goes on to the next part of the tragedy.

More sobs, more and more sobs. I can’t understand
what she says with all her teeth gone.
Note to self: floss, even when drunk.
Twenty minutes! I shoot her a look. Give it a rest.

At last, she stands, and a man
announces, “The old woman wants
to get off.” She balks. Hands on
bony hips. “I am not old!” Everyone laughs.

She stops to admire my face. “So pretty.”
I hang my head. She skips down the steps
and runs past young men who
trudge toward their desks.

Top photo: Bigstock

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