On A Bus

78-year-old Frieda tried to maintain balance while holding her bags. No one offered to exchange places, never mind looked up from a cell phone.

"People used to give an old person a seat," said Frieda out loud.

A seat? The young driver had seen nothing like that in his experience. "Sit here for a minute," he offered.

* * * * *

A few blocks after Frieda had driven erratically, a policeman signaled the bus over.

"Enough," he demanded, tired of her playing on the sympathy of young drivers to gratify her bus-driving-desires. Enough with the previous warnings. He never trusted little old ladies anyway.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Montana Woman

I didn’t know you were dying until I saw what your grown daughter posted on Facebook under your name. For a minute, I wondered if I should “Like” the post as a way to convey my sympathy. Probably not, right? It was the sort of dilemma that once would have had you shaking your head in amused despair at me. Your daughter says that now you mostly just sleep. Where I am, some 1,900 miles from you, yellow daisy-like flowers that shut at night as though sleeping or even dead open at the touch of morning, bodies exploding from coffins.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

Forgotten

He doesn't remember me. I used to be someone who was close to him. At least I thought I was close to him. He'd look at me as if I were a friend. He'd look at me as if I were a stranger but what exactly was in those eyes? In those sparkly eyes, was that affection, sympathy, or simply pity?

Seeing him walking down the street were the only happy moments of my life. Doesn't he remember he saved me once and every day since then from all my misery. Well, the truth is I don't remember him either.

From Guest Contributor Sergio Nicolas