by Larry Welling

There are no buses that stop here
Not in my neighborhood
They could, I guess, but never would
This is a place that people fear

And I don’t blame them, not one bit
The guns and crack and whores
What goes on behind closed doors
It scares me too I must admit

It hasn’t always been this way
That bus took us to jobs that paid
Enough to buy some self respect
And have some pride at end of day

Enough to be a family man
With several kids and loving wife
To pursue a dream, to have a plan
To maybe buy a better life

But somehow that all just went away
First the jobs and then the pride
Followed by the bills no one could pay
There was no place that we could hide

Families soon would disappear
Victims of despair and violence
Young men too were no longer here
Imprisoned for some drug offense

But by default, perhaps, I am still here
And it is here some day that I will die
As I sit lonely and in constant fear
Just watching buses hurry by

Categories: Poetry