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by Joseph Vega
I took my cousin to the bus station
and told him he should go out west before
it was too late to see his dreams come true.
He wanted to write a novel for years
but life in Queens had started wearing thin.
As we waited for the bus to arrive
he scratched some thoughts in his notebook once more;
his block had disappeared before my eyes
he smiled and turned and leapt inside the doors
and as the bus pulled out of Penn that day
I saw my cousin wave his last goodbye.
I never saw a word of his in print
but life for him was better than before.
He'll never come back east he always says.