A slow ride, but he seemed in no hurry

A poem about the other Advent story

Photo by Ryan Brooklyn on Unsplash

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One of my friends says that this is her favorite poem of mine, and her favorite Advent poem in particular … so, Barbara, this one is for you. And for the guy on the bus.

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RETURN                                                                      1997


It’s true, he’s back. I saw him 
yesterday, on the crosstown bus. Not so much 
like the pictures; he’d shaved (a day or two ago 
at least) and pulled his hair back with 
a rubber band — ratty Giants sweatshirt,
old Levis, and sandals that he could
have worn the last time, I guess. The face
was the same, though — you knew it when
you watched him laughing with the boombox kids
in the back seat, flirting with a solemn baby
until its mother’s thin brown cheeks shone pink;
chatting up the Mormon twins who cruised 
the aisle in cheap black suits and earnest smiles,
shaking hands again with the loud guy
in the smelly coat, answering his random questions
in a way that gave them sense; gazing back 
at a manicured man wrapped in the Wall Street Journal, 
until the manicured stare crumpled like newsprint,   
smudged into a little-boy grin. A slow ride, but he seemed
in no hurry — I heard him ask the driver
where to transfer for the veteran’s hospital,
and when he pulled the cord and swung 
down the steps and out the opening door,
the boombox kids followed him 
and the guy in the smelly coat
and the man with the Wall Street Journal.
The baby started crying
the Mormon twins wiped their noses
and for a minute all of us looked at each other
the way you never do on the crosstown bus,
searching hard in her face my face your face
for something we had seen in his.

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