Somewhere that’s not New York

Standing in line
reading Bukowski
waiting to board the bus
that’ll take me back home
to Pennsylvania 
to childhood
to be taken care of. 

The meth heads, 
with their pierced faces
and gaunt eye sockets, 
line up somewhere behind me
to peddle their wares in Wilkes-Barre,
to add to the death count of 2013. 

The woman in front of me 
asks if I would watch her bags
so she can have one last smoke
out among the exhaust fumes
and asks about my neon-orange shoes.

The Spanish couple behind me
loudly make out
as if he’s going off to war
before he boards for Mount Pocono.

We all get on
only to inevitably get off
somewhere that’s not New York.


*Written aboard the Marz bus that took me home to Northeastern Pennsylvania Sunday night.


About nikkimmascali

I am an editor, writer and New Yorker who has ink for blood and the blog name + tattoo to prove it. Also of note: I follow more dogs than people on Instagram. This is my blog about reading, writing and absolutely no 'rithmetic because I am horrendous at math.
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