She was sitting at the bus stop <br />dressed in turn of the century black <br />waiting for the bus <br />that takes the leftovers <br />to visit the recently departed <br /> <br />I see them every week <br />their cotton bags <br />filled with rusty garden tools <br />their skin pulled back <br />in grimaces <br />of exhausted martyrdom <br /> The Death Brigade <br />doing their duty <br />with religious desperation <br /> <br />and I’ve often wondered <br />if they ever feel <br />an ounce of love <br />for the tedious <br />thankless job <br />of tending graves <br /> <br />But she stood out <br />from the musty throng <br /> <br />She’d dressed up <br />for the occasion <br />her delicate liver-spotted fingers <br />were wrapped <br />in black lace gloves <br /> <br />beneath her pillbox hat <br />there was dignity <br />and sorrow <br />in each lock of silver hair <br /> <br />and I wished <br />she wasn’t waiting <br />for that bus <br />or at least <br />that someone else would notice <br />that her tools were <br />in the words <br />she couldn’t speak <br />and the sadness <br />she was hiding <br /> <br />and the garden <br />she’d be tending <br />was in bloom<br /><br />Sheila Knowles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/taking-the-bus-past-the-graveyard/
