Driver Brother #1

Bill Smith Parker Sr.

The smell of a bus station is as guaranteed as summer rain in south Florida.These depots are ports in the circuitry of the American. A slight body odor lingers in the air with taint of exhaust from these modern machines that have evolved to carry a wifi signal to attract the new poor and down on their luck. 


I have been the temporary tenant of these urban shelters on and off my whole adult life.

The mental and physical shape of this guy is never at peak performance while wandering the halls of these pins on the map in any city USA. .Most times you will find me wearing a random assortment of garments I had  never planned to be merged into a single presentation of myself. Smelling of booze and cigarettes while with a red tint to my complection.Shaky hands and dilated pupils are the tail of the man.This genius this drunk.


Your fellow vagabond are a stripped down version of the American traveler.Most being your ordinary lower middle class to dirt poor but in no way out of the ordinary of any other human you would see walking down the road on any given day. As with all things there is always an exception to this rule of the common folk passing through societies portal that you will never see a commercial about. You will occasionally get a wonderful example of the truly crazy and maladjusted individual. Although as I think about it those types are really just all of us. We all have the moments in our life when we are truly certifiably crazy as hell. If you deny this you are a lying to yourself. Just take a look at the pharma companies. They have mastered the breakdown of the human psyche to the point we have a condition and medication for every type of human emotion.


The true beauty is what lies just beyond the surface of these points to connect a space and time in some travelers journey.What you have here is the road to everywhere the road to nowhere.

For me it's the road to somewhere.


These moments we wait are the moments we have waited: This dusty traveler with brown rayon slacks and white vneck tshirt, black dress shoes with no socks.This fifty year old dinosaur.

Shared my beer with a 300 lb homeless girl who most likely has not the cognitive ability to do more than make a phone call or order double soft taco. 


He asks himself am I crazy: Well,that's impossible.


Has this life reached its finish? I know it has just began. 

  • Author: The man who talks (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: October 21st, 2021 22:03
  • Comment from author about the poem: This is the forward to a series of poems
  • Category: Reflection
  • Views: 18
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  • L. B. Mek

    definitely makes me interested in reading the series of poems its introducing,
    thanks for sharing
    (may need some editing, if being considered for submission or self publishing)

    • Bill Smith Parker Sr.

      Thanks pal. Yes, this very sloppy. If anyone wants to polish it up be my guest.

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