Bus Stop

by Sally Burnette

The sign leers in front of a dilapidated car dealership. Kudzu curls
up the white bench that has an ad for a child abuse
hotline stuck to the back.

Woman number one
bulging out of black leggings and a spaghetti strapped tank top.
Her neon blue bra distorts a crucifix tattoo
trapped between her breasts. Her phone blares an island
music ringtone. She snatches it from her cavernous, stretch-marked
cleavage with meaty hands decorated with rings
and patterned acrylic nails. “Hello?”

hiking up his denim shorts over his wifebeater,
embellished with brown stains. No man should ever wear
jean shorts. Dried tobacco leaf hair fans out from his orange
Bass Pro Shops hat. He stares with dog brown eyes at a crippled
junebug crawling out of a hole in the sidewalk.

Woman number two
wearing a too-big skirt suit, smelling of bathroom vending machine
perfume. The keys in her lap sparkle like
an engagement ring. She rubs her forehead with her naked
left hand, her wrinkles drooping like a wet butterfly, camouflaging
her un-groomed eyebrows.

floating, silent. Absorbs woman, man, and woman. Heat
slides off the cooling windows, and the bench darkens
as the sun falls.

Sally Burnette is originally from Oxford, North Carolina, but currently a student at Eckerd College in St. Petersburg, Florida. She has published one short story and two poems in the college’s literary magazine, the Eckerd Review.

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  • Helen Wallace / April 19, 2012

    Great use of metaphor here, Sally! Love the all the minute details….

  • Tracy / August 3, 2012

    I feel like I have seen these people before! Very visual word picture. Thank you for sharing your work.