Middle-aged Man, Young Girl

Michael Odom

The number eight against the darkness, empty,
comes glowing past the billboard worlds' haloes.
A light-streaked--blond, white, gold--Russian beauty
boards with us strangers and strains out: "Where goes
it? This."  A timpani beneath the Volga voice,
a Cyrillic answer of a broad-jawed man,
falls back quick from her relief to silence.
Silent....  I smile....  Silent....  She rings.  I stand.
I step down after her.  The terminal
cries out: 'Crime Scene:' concrete pillars, dark ramps
and urine-stained shadows.  'Black Criminal'
I cry out; my limp brim, too like the tramps
with uncivil eyes and hungers.  She glares
back, I'm back, sees the glow of our bus and stares.

Michael Odom

Michael lives in the Bay Area where he is currently at work on the novel.