SOMETIMES IT’S GOOD TO MISS A BUS

She puts the bucket on top of the dresser to catch
the drips and heads for the graveyard. Each day she
sits in the same seat, rides on the same bus, stares
off into the distance, waiting for the right stop to come.
Each day she is more like the graves she visits,
silent and unresponsive, less like the sky that takes on
shades of orange or bluish grey or whatever it feels like
that day. Today she’ll miss that bus, though she won’t
know right away what to do with the time given.
Waiting for another one to arrive, she’ll remember
where she’s been.