Anguish and Wolfenbarger

Anguish & Wolfenbarger

While she waits on tables at the Dallas City Café,
she glances up through the greasy front windows
at the Anguish & Wolfenbarger Ford Dealership
across and slightly down the street. People in town
just call it The Anguish. The name still makes her
wince. Today is Tuesday, so she takes her coffee
break at 2:15, just like she does every Tuesday,
sits at the table in the front and waits. She’ll see
the Greyhound Bus as it motors down Main Street,
stops at the railroad tracks, the driver looking down
the rails that extend in each direction to the horizon,
becoming arrows he wishes he could grab onto and use
to launch himself into another life that is not this one.
She’ll watch as the bus crosses the tracks and pulls
over at the far end of the auto shop to either catch
or release another passenger. Or more likely, no one
does either, and the driver shuffles inside for a cup
of vending machine coffee and a piss, before leaning
against the brick wall along the alley and having a smoke,
then getting back on the bus. He always leans in the exact
place where her Billy did that day, where the metal plate
on the wall is falling away from the bricks, where he smoked
one Lucky Strike after another until the bus pulled up
and he turned to her, winked, and climbed into the past.

Paul Scot August

(Published January 2012 in Bending Light Into Verse, Volume III)


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