by Elizabeth Harlan-Ferlo
Her mother is expecting her. She walks down—
here’s a bus stop. She waits. She’s forgotten
her mother’s death. She’s forgotten her destination.
A nurse arrives, joins her. It does seem like
the bus will never come. What we think we know
(we’ve been over and over the signage, the map)
leads again to this bench. A belly rumbles like gravel;
transcendence may not arrive. For now,
we could come back in, at least for supper.