The individualism in this cemetery is amazing
glimpsed from my hurrying bus—
which I hope doesn’t get me to work too fast.
I’ll be bored. Slow down, bus; the Swampscott
tombs have caught my interest this morning.
I was cursing my commute just an hour ago,
but not because a bus might be fast or slow.
It was this: at 7 am I must leave my home.
I thought: this is death—forced to leave your home
is the worst thing in life; commuting is death.
Now writing this in my bus I’m in a different mood;
it’s a Friday before a long weekend.
The plague has thinned out humanity;
the city bus has an alacrity I’ve never seen—
the worst thing I face is: I’ll get to work early.
Next week I’m remote, then a week of vacation,
soon my inheritance will come due;
I have no aches and pains whatsoever.
Happy me! Happy bus! Slow down, bus,
let’s visit the Swampscott graves.
I want to laugh at my previous mood,
I want to think on my love who is alive but who left me—-
(we once visited graves)
I want to celebrate tombs and dream on the contradictions lingering in me.
To think of easy death with a lazy ease!
O bus, will you stop please?