Buena Street Bus Stop

Michelle Velarde

1st Place, Poetry Category

Luna, I’m waiting for you.

The sidewalk is cracked,

And weeds fill in the gaps.

It reminds me of how the earth must look

After an earthquake—

Pieces overlapping and broken,

Fault lines snaking silently

Down Buena Street.

Others wait in the shade

Of a white brick wall,

Freshly painted, but a black signature

Loiters beneath the surface.

When the sidewalk is too crowded,

We stand in the empty dirt lot,

Watching the ground as we walk,

Stepping over fragmented glass

And sharpened pebbles.

A rusty chain link fence,

Strangled by thorny bougainvilleas,

Hides the train’s tracks

But does nothing to muffle

Its screaming arrival.

I cover my ears,

Hum to myself—

That song you learned

For the Christmas pageant.

“Little toy trains, little toy tracks…”

There’s one father here today.

Wearing a white shirt,

So thin that it threatens to rip,

Giving in to the force of his beer belly.

His shoes look like dry skin,

Sunburned and bruised,

Wrinkled from strain and age.

The rest of us are mothers—

So many mothers.

The ones from Mexico are easy to find.

They’re under five feet tall,

With thick black braids and smooth

Brown skin. Hard-boned noses.

They’re dressed in thrift store clothes:

A sweater a little too big,

Their hands lost in the long sleeves,

Pants a little too tight,

Their soft bellies creased.

They have toddlers on their hips,

Whose legs dangle freely,

Gently kicking their mothers’ knees.

The young mothers smoke cigarettes

Across the street,

Their highlighted hair growing out,

Their acrylic nails half broken,

Their department store jeans

Fraying at the bottoms.

They talk loudly about men,

Or the puta next door.

There are also the stand-ins:

A friend, a neighbor, or

A daughter, like Rocio.

She dusts off a curb and sits down.

She’s wearing red sweat pants,

And a purple sweatshirt

With a cigarette burn at the cuff.

She squints down Buena Street,

For just a moment,

And then opens her book,

Murder on Thunder Hill.

Your bus is coming,

Teetering like a toy on the uneven road.

It pulls up to the curb,

Crunching Burger King wrappers.

I see you, Luna.

You’re the only one

Wearing a new uniform.

I can hear your laughter,

It’s like coins dropping—

When anyone hears it,

They turn and look.

Your hair is so straight,

Not like mine, wavy and kinky.

Your eyes are jalapeno green.

Where did those eyes come from?

Mine are the color and shape of beans.

You are carrying something plastic,

With a paperclip tied to the end.

You see me and smile, tossing

Your arms into the air.

The plastic expands—floats unsurely,

Flipping in the breeze—

You twirl, following it, dancing with it.

And I hope for a moment

That you will never land

On Buena Street.