This is a very, very short poem.
Set them off.
Greyhound says she could keep getting off the bus.
"The Last Americans."
Not a funny poem at all.
It's going to depress you, but I won't leave you with that.
"The Last Americans."
"The bus hops into the Greyhound station,
and the passengers stepped down.
The last one off, she uncoiled from the bus riders
long distance slouch, skin gray as prison linen, and a face
without borders.
Combs her hair with both hands, rearranges her shoulders,
drops her eyes on each of us, until she finds the one.
Sighs.
Then they head across the street to the pawn shop,
closed by now, and stare in the wide window
at the guns and knives."