Bus Stop
by Charlene Stegman Moskal
I imagine I know what is implied
your face set in its frozen mask;
mouth speaks for you, softness denied,
no more questions left to ask.
Ever so slightly lips thrust out,
frown of stone in an icy pout.
Your face set in its frozen mask
reveals dreams now grown dim;
a street messiah knows your past,
your sharpened tongue does not scare him.
Furred with thirsty smoke filled anger
he understands too well the silent avenger.
Mouth speaks for you, softness denied,
fierce, to keep away the hurt
hidden under your fragile pride.
You look away, eyes dart, alert--
don’t worry about the secrets you keep,
we have our own as dark and deep.
No more questions left to ask,
the answers false in your guarded lies;
you act the role in which you’re cast
to keep the story locked inside.
Born from tales of beat down hope
your static face a way to cope.
Ever so slightly lips thrust out
tells the world this is your space:
Do not approach, have no doubt
in my glance there is no saving grace.
The visage of my cold, hard stare,
a silent warning to beware.
Frown of stone in an icy pout
your eyes shoot daggers of distrust.
Your face fixed in a glacial shout,
a litany of loss says nothing is just.
From my car window I see how you wait,
angry at circumstance, and the bus is late.
your face set in its frozen mask;
mouth speaks for you, softness denied,
no more questions left to ask.
Ever so slightly lips thrust out,
frown of stone in an icy pout.
Your face set in its frozen mask
reveals dreams now grown dim;
a street messiah knows your past,
your sharpened tongue does not scare him.
Furred with thirsty smoke filled anger
he understands too well the silent avenger.
Mouth speaks for you, softness denied,
fierce, to keep away the hurt
hidden under your fragile pride.
You look away, eyes dart, alert--
don’t worry about the secrets you keep,
we have our own as dark and deep.
No more questions left to ask,
the answers false in your guarded lies;
you act the role in which you’re cast
to keep the story locked inside.
Born from tales of beat down hope
your static face a way to cope.
Ever so slightly lips thrust out
tells the world this is your space:
Do not approach, have no doubt
in my glance there is no saving grace.
The visage of my cold, hard stare,
a silent warning to beware.
Frown of stone in an icy pout
your eyes shoot daggers of distrust.
Your face fixed in a glacial shout,
a litany of loss says nothing is just.
From my car window I see how you wait,
angry at circumstance, and the bus is late.
Charlene Stegman Moskal is a Teaching Artist for SPRAT and the Las Vegas Poetry Promise Organization. She is published in numerous anthologies, print and online magazines including: TAB Journal, Calyx, Humana Obscura, Wild Roof Journal, and Mac Q. Her chapbooks are “One Bare Foot,” (Zeitgeist Press), “Leavings from My Table,” (Finishing Line Press), “Woman Who Dyes Her Hair,” (Kelsay Books) and a full length poetry collection, “Running the Gamut” (Zeitgeist Press).