Greyhound From Portland

Night retreats, in the pursuit of happiness.
Two am and three hours till departure.
Leaving Longfellow Square, a half-day behind,
in taxi clarity of blue-grey stone
and trashy autumn's tawdry orange.

Outside the terminal,
fallen road angels cluster for a smoke;
bards of the highway,
telling tales of who 'did 'em wrong'.
Listing boats without anchor,
foraging friendliness
in the absolution of strangers.

Hungry eyes snare the small child,
as she skips the dirty tiles of the station,
waiting for her folded dollar treasure
to slip through her fingers,
plunging chum to the waiting shark.

'Have ya got some change, Mizzes? '
'Do ya got a smoke? '

Too old to turn away without feeling,
too same to share what I need,
I take my coffee as inhalation
from the coach driver's cup
and smoke my last cigarette.