Midwestern Bus Stop

By J. Stasek

I take up a seat

In the tiny little booth

Now the pouring rain

Can only attack me from one angle

The filthy concrete floor

Is awash with a soup of trash

Eggshells and cigarette butts

With a brown garnish flowing through the ruts

A man sits next to me

But he isn’t really there

He’s got about three brain cells

All washing dishes in his mind

Another creature enters my face

And engulfs the rest of the cramped space

The flesh filled booth is bursting at the seams

Check my watch, twenty more minutes, it seems

Looking out involuntarily

With my face pressed into the glass

I see a growing line of various aliens

A green-haired lady with legs up to here

A local militia member, clad in his tactical gear

A child that’s thirty-seven years old

All waiting for their mothership to take them home