Seekers
by Christopher Woods
In the bus station
I was near enough
To be master of ceremonies,
Seeing them on their way.
But I had no idea,
Let alone imagination,
For what rolled toward me
On the dolly.
An ice chest, and I thought
It odd that someone would send
Such a thing on a bus,
Near midnight, from Houston
Or anywhere at all.
Then I read the label –
FRAGILE – HUMAN EYES FOR TRANSPLANT.
Later, on the bus
Rolling down the highway,
I couldn’t sleep.
I thought of them down below,
Wedged between boxes and suitcases,
Jostled on bumps and curves.
How they had no brain
To let them know a thing,
Where they were going
Or why.
I thought of my own life,
In transit once again.
My brain couldn’t tell me
What was ahead either,
Only that I was on my way.
I got off in the Rio Grande Valley,
While they continued.
