Trip

Like pubescent poppies they stand and wait for the bus.

Like buds right before they pop they stand and wait for the bus.

Brains buzzing, feet a hurtin; they stand and wait for the bus.

Graceland has proved a  fruitless affair.

They stood from a far, without a cent or second to spare. 

The Sara Marie jet they did not board.

Their green notes gone to unnecessary tips, hire cars and double burgers.

So here they are, post visit and pre-experience, they wait for the bus.

Dusk proves sketchy, palpitating pupils that lazar them.

Crazy energy.

Black and enlarged and spacey.

The light haired poppy and her fiery friend wait out the unfortunate position, penniless and cornered.

They wait for the bus.

It arrives, far from expected time.

They boarded.

Their pink noses a sight for sore eyes.

Their pink en-casings a means for question.

The pair of quickly perturbing females are enlightened to the fact of their sex.

Like fresh blossoms yet deflowered to the customs of their night ride.

They hold on firmly and look ahead by the driver's side.

Never before so alarmed of their place in the world, as they stood right there at the front of that bus.

Pink hands squeezing, trying to ignore the poking, the calling and the ever present notion that this was not going to be a smooth ride.

Calling them by lady, calling them to come.

Ahead they stare till the unavoidable move.

The room next to the men has been made.

A very special spot they say back there for us, spoken in between fits of merciless laughter and ridicule.

Begrudgingly like little lambs they swiftly move.

The fiery stays confident, look them in the eye.

The unhinged eyed man with a paper bag covered bottle and toothless grin he edges further, he snuggles in.

The commotion of the pink poppies has formed a group to gather as if a school yard brawl was about to begin.

They laugh and touch and tell us their misshaped directs.

'you see that camera up there' toothless points, his grog less hand pushing her spine.

'we can't get you while you are on the bus, but if you are off it you aint got no chance'

Eruption, commotion fits of laughter to the comments of the leader.

Then they turn not on motion but on each other.

'Don't listen to him he is just a slave, he can't even right his own name'

Like a movie line of jargon the words are spoken.

The poppies look through their surroundings and directly into the pinkness of the others skin.

we come from the sun burnt country, the place of prominent separation they say.

But never once had they known the extent to which it rains clear like the sex of a baby. They are pink.

Pink and pubescent to the order in this town.

Ben their friend, who is not at all a square.

He flits between gender, plays the fun and downs the shit.

But his eyes wide and concerned when told the pink poppies boarded that bus of naive notion.

For everyone drives in Memphis he exclaims, night is not time for buses.

So drink they and drive they do, through the streets of blues.

Run the driver said, when you get off the bus run. Don't stop until you reach bourbon street.

In a dash of refusal and disbelief of strange the happenings, jump those poppies did, off that bus at the closest lit street to the main drag. 

As flowers are flattened in the pages of books.The poppies run never to return to the night bus in the town of Elvis.