We stopped halfway to Granada
at Casa Marcos. Half an hour wait.
There was a flood of orders
at the counter for ten minutes.
Feet wandered the parking lot
recirculating blood, long settled
from the small seats. The eyes,
the eyes of chickens wandering
the farmyard. No one knew what to do.
Mobiles the only solace. The soft blanket
of technology over our eyes and ears
and mouth. I overhead English.
I overheard talk of camping.
It was a brief pause
in the lives of valiant bus riders
and then the farmer arrived.
No comments:
Post a Comment