DIY

Friday Morning

A poem from the archives

photo by author

People on the bus were too sleepy,
mostly, to notice the girl
dressed for a waitressing shift
in her black skirt and shoes
and navy blue tights. The girl
hadn’t noticed the mismatch
until she stood at the bus stop
in the clear outdoor light. At least
her shirt looked tidy, its creases
crisp as she could iron them.

On the bus, the person next to her
wanted to talk, and he began
with a compliment on her jacket,
the leather jacket it had been,
the girl realized, a mistake to wear
to a workplace with no lockers
and an unwatched coatrack. Finally,
he stopped talking, but the girl
never answered. Slowly, she closed
her eyes: closed them first
against the bus ride and then
against Friday in its entirety, a day
already turned black and blue.