by Niki Mullins
Collecting your bags, I dimly recall
My dad, Pat, carrying me in here shoulder high.
Conductor bag jangling as he bagged the cash.
And we鈥檇 sit in the canteen watching the buses being washed
Out back, while he鈥檇 let me sip on his coffee and cream.
My messages laden mother would come pick me up.
I鈥檇 insist we鈥檇 sit upstairs, going home on the bus.
Upstairs, on the one in front, he鈥檇 be waving at us.
I reclaim your shopping and add it to my own,
Under the combined load, struggle to the door.
In the attendant downpour, flailing for a cab.
He鈥檚 lighter now, than I was on his back,
But he wouldn鈥檛 want it, and I鈥檝e never asked.
Haven鈥檛 seen him take coffee since, neither, white nor black.
Quarryman
Contact us