Where I waited
several hours, at least
in all weather
for the jail bus
picking us women up
and a couple of men
for a visit
with our incarcerated.
A long bumpy ride
on hard seats.
Each time upon my return,
exhausted, my mother
nevertheless chided me:
He is not deservant of you.
Deservant, I thought, sounds like
drain cleaner.
No foliage back then
snaked the slat wall
where we waited
on the tardy bus
just litter:
lunch bags, soda bottles,
cupcake wrappers, apple cores.
One time a condom.
Who would need a condom
going to that place?
Then I got old and he never
finished up his time.

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