MISSED BUS

A mother alone stands on a city curb,
bus scheule half unfolded,
child clinging to her spring coat.
Consternation pours out of repaired
horn-rimmed spectacles with missing rhinestones.
She glances up the street
before turning to the beckon of adult
company carried
on smoke and beer spiced air
from a hole in the brick
wall behind her.
A cacophony of laughter, clinking glassware,
and Jimmy Dean tunes,
(like a distant gaggle of geese)
wafts out on the sidewalk like vomit.
The mother instructs her coatless
daughter to wait on the flagstone step
protruding from a dark den
and a bar room warped
tongue and groove.
In a cold April shade, the girl
watches the sun skip across the street
in a time lapsed cascade.
Buses careen and sometimes stop
to let off or receive.
The late sun turns its back on the day
and people stop asking the girl
why she's there
and scoff at her beggar face
as they pass on the stair.