I listened to two girls tell kiss-kill tales
on a bus to I know not where.
They seemed easy breezy
in the way of those who know
where they are going.
But destination wasn’t in the bus’s program.
It was built to circle eternity,
letting the eager stew in endless moments.
A chill — the big chill — lost in a default mode.
Still, I could have followed their stories forever,
but for the skip every time the bus hit that pothole.
Cluing me in that they weren’t.
By B Gourley in poem, Poetry on June 14, 2018.
