The Indian Woman Reading on the Bus

by�Tim Suermondt

 

I�ll take, always, a gander

at the beautiful: this time

at the long black hair,

 

the short black skirt,

the razor thin pantyhose

and the black high heels.

 

She�s easing my way through

the monotonous landscape

of upper New York, leavened

 

only by the Subway shop

with it�s reasonably priced

array of foot long sandwiches.

 

I notice �The First Circle�

on the cover�Solzhenitsyn, that

grouch, would have loved this

 

and wished he�d been exiled

to the Indian Continent instead

of to the Winter snows, the Summer

 

mosquitoes of� a lonely Vermont.

At the Buffalo Airport stop

she grabs all her belongings, hawk-like,

 

and dashes off the blue bus.

I watch her wobble a bit,

but continue on at a spirited pace.

 

I unwrap the rest of my sandwich,

being as careful as if opening a great

book, eating slowly to make it last.