Ride After "The Bus" by Frida Kahlo 1929 by Wanda Schubmehl Unsettled day, too many of me on the bus. My feet already hurt in my shoes, and there's a lot of day yet to come. Worries climb on and sit too close— money, work, my long-lost youth— there's no way to be the madonna, barefoot and oblivious, lost in a little world of two. This bus is a long, hot journey. Outside, the world stretches far and green, but where we are going there is only destination. My inner child looks the other way, watching trees in a long line count off the distance. We arrive at chimneys belching black smoke. My scarf tries to loosen itself from my neck and flee, flee out any unpaned window.
|