Night Layover in Greyhound Station, Christmas Return to Basic Training

Night Layover in Greyhound Station,

Christmas Return to Basic Training

With sure purpose a man comes in

through the street doors and I can smell

his bulky brown overcoat before he edges

the wall opposite the counter, moves

close enough for smelling it.  He fingers

the coin return slots of a payphone,

vending machines, the Double Bubble

gum machine while I admire his swiftness,

quick concentration, imagine he's been

rousted out before since he's half-fleeing

already.

Slumped in my dress uniform trench coat,

buttoned against the December draft

of cold from the night-colored glass doors,

what everyone else ignores is the night's

most interesting thing to me, and I wonder

at the mystery of his visit, remember

a college sociology class -- "Because

they can't move they have no choice

but to adapt to circumstances," the poor,

a concept -- not real, burnt out lives that

do move, with forced dignity back past

the desk attendant, defying his glance,

and I just imagine fingers found a coin

in every one of the returns, defying

the power of losing.

 Steven Croft

An Army combat veteran, Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia on a property lush with vegetation. He has recent work in Willawaw Journal, Sky Island Journal, So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library, Third Wednesday, Red Eft Review, San Pedro River Review, Poets Reading the News, Gyroscope Review, and other places.