Carolyn Miller: Sunset on the 38 Geary

Each face staring straight ahead, no one speaking,

each rider holding the day carefully, like an egg,

past the piroshki bakeries, past the restaurants

selling pho and bulgoki and Shanghai dumplings

and carnitas, past the Church of the Star of the Sea

on the long blocks of the Outer Lands,

concrete-covered sand dunes reaching out

to the Pacific and the blinding sunset light.

When the bus stops to let the people embark and

disembark, it makes a sound like baby wolves

howling at the moon. We drive on west, into

the sun. Each time the back door opens

it makes a sound like waterfowl

lifting from a lake. And we are hopeful,

even the old ones who struggle up the steps

to slowly ease into the seats reserved for them

and for the injured, and the young ones who think

they never will be old, for we believe that we will be delivered,

that we will be transported in our earthly bodies,

traveling as we are toward Avalon, the Island of the Blest,

with its golden apples and its lake of fire.

Carolyn Miller grew up in the Missouri Ozarks. Today she lives in San Francisco, where she writes, paints, and works as a free-lance copy editor.

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