Asking Kathy’s god

I’m asking Kathy’s god if this is a convenient time,

what with all the murdered children and aged parents that

catch the bus every minute,  somewhere. 

What are the chances for extra seats today?

 I think I should commute, as I count the vultures

like finials on the row of lampposts.

One.  Two.  Three.  Four.

Like counting the sheep of sleep,

the raptors of death wait for carrion

wait for us to plow over

innocence on our way to …hell?

They catch a cool breeze rising against their wattle.

Is it passing spirits

from the hospital below?

While they wait, I drive and think about commuting. 

I am taking the same road, at the same time,

to the same place.

It does not pay for happiness.

You can’t buy that.

I would put it on layaway if I could.

I’m not late this morning

because Columbine Man, with phone to ear,

has not walked past the dealership.

I see him every day before I turn.

Before I turn.    In.

I tell Kronos I’ve arrived

and he marks the time in pennies.

Pennies for my thoughts.  Pennies for my light.

Pennies for my car.  My clothes.  My food.

Do we wait for the bus or the other way around?

Does  it arrive in a cloud of exhaust and surprise us?