she sat there like a photograph
|
of someone much further away
|
we shared a brief bus stop
|
on one of those inbetween days
|
she gave me her smile
|
and I looked underneath
|
at the lipstick on her teeth
|
|
she asked me for a light
|
and if I thought her hair looked okay
|
we grew out of the small talk
|
into stuff strangers just don't say
|
we discovered we are both
|
pleasently furious half of the time
|
when we're not just toeing the line
|
|
we sat underneath the shelter
|
as the rain came down outside
|
the bench was cold
|
against the underside of our thighs
|
I said I think we need new responses
|
each question's a revolving door
|
and she said, yeah,
|
my life may not be something special
|
but it's never been lived before
|
|
we decided our urgency will wane
|
when we grow old
|
and there will be a new generation of anger
|
new stories to be told
|
but I said, I don't know if I can wait
|
for that peace to be mine
|
and she said, well, you know,
|
we've been waiting for this bus
|
for an awfully long time
|
|
-----------------
|
Brief Bus Stop
|
| Ani DiFranco |
