WEBVTT

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This is a very, very short poem.

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Set them off.

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Greyhound says she could
keep getting off the bus.

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"The Last Americans."

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Not a funny poem at all.

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It's going to depress you, but
I won't leave you with that.

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"The Last Americans."

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"The bus hops into
the Greyhound station,

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and the passengers stepped down.

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The last one off, she
uncoiled from the bus riders

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long distance slouch, skin gray
as prison linen, and a face

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without borders.

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Combs her hair with both hands,
rearranges her shoulders,

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drops her eyes on each of
us, until she finds the one.

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Sighs.

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Then they head across the
street to the pawn shop,

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closed by now, and
stare in the wide window

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at the guns and knives."

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