By Larry H. Spruill
Legions of worn out thinly threaded dresses
partially covering dusty wirery legs
capped with barefeet with crusted toes
encircled by flip flop shower shoes
walking the tube like two lane highways
crossed by narrow red dirt roads
cleared of brush by well beaten foot paths
leading to distant bush villages
walking under a golden glowing setting sun
casting elongated shadows
of young boys and girls
skillfully hauling upon their heads
deep pots of evening water
to their adobe homes
They walk with the agility and grace
of ballerinas and Bolshoi dancers
eyes fixed on the distant puffs of smoke
bellowing from the village hearths and chimneys
what are they thinking about?
What stirs the souls on the other side of the
polarized bus window?
The blanket of night will soon fall.
They will disappear into the darkness.
There are many hours before I stop to rest.
For now, I pass soul after soul in an air-cooled bus
on my way to a frigid hotel room and restaurant.
I cannot imagine their dreams for tomorrow.
Perhaps, an effortless day of fresh water and food?
I do not know how to really know
on the other side of the window.