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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.


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