End Of The Line

end of the line
the bus, trolly drivers too; train conducters
always find or found the same words for it

above ground.
somehow it comforted me
on days to work whenever this resounded

to reflect no matter what the day would bring
by way of suffering in the little ways you can
at work, the outsized smirks, the putting down

you always face as a temporary employee
always out to sea as far as the permanent ones
are concerned and ever on trial for their

superiors no matter what you learned
in the job preceding this.
this helped me get by, and bookstores

so no matter what was endured
I could say at the end of the day
I went through that for Kafka,

Fairy Tales, or Michnik's latest essays,
Ashkenazy's spell, and April, at the museums.
so work was the straw I spun into gold

on paydays. other days there was always
the soothing reminder, end of the line,
and then the chime or the accordion fold

of the doors that let me off in the purple twilights.
"this is the end of the line."

one day
it will be.

mary angela douglas 1 april 2016