Parked Hound

People rise from damp Greyhound seats
sticky and cold, round metal bars click
as riders disembark through tripod turnstiles;

2 AM outside a terminal that never sleeps
cars slowly roll past looking for pick-ups;
cars roll slowly, drivers looking for pick-ups;

hookers across the street smoke cigs
take a break from professional calls,
backbreaking exercise, ungrateful Johns
who act like twenty bucks will buy them
a new life full of promises—while kingpins
lurk in shadows hunched over shopping carts
ready to fix or enable strangers to score
once passengers shuffle past bus station souvenirs:

coffee mugs, refrigerator magnets, postcards,
commemorative key chains; nearby, the grey dog’s
long body pants, refuels, idles till boarded anew.