Out of Detroit on the Greyhound
and at the lights, a man sprawled
in the gutter in front of a Mack truck.
Two sheriffs, black SUVs, hands
on hips. The man wearing the hoodie
with the number "8" in
polka dots, whoís been nursing
his bubble-top iced
coffee since Ontario - says,
"I think heís faking it."
"Hells bells," someone else says. "To
get the insurance."
"True. I canít see no blood."
"Donít need to be no blood for them
inside organs to be damaged." This
is the woman with the baby
both of whom will cry, all the way to Toledo.
"Naw man, itís the
insurance." The bus
pulls away. Out of Lima and
number 8 shouts: "Wrong bus!"
Sits back down. The cornfields around Dayton
in the late afternoon sun, wide
yellow and white.