REFER TO GREY: Contemplations by Robert Greigos © 2007-2024

These eyes is gettin' old. These eyes need thick glasses to see clearly now.

This city, this bus ride I take each day has changed some, but not a lot. Buses used to be cold in winter and swelterin' hot in summer and rattle to bust your ears bouncin' through all the pot holes. Now, the streets are in better shape. An' these newer buses seem to glide, never too warm, never too cold. It's nicer, safer. Don't smell near as bad, neither.

I look at these people, though. They ain't changed a bit. They stills hardly never talk, keeps to themselves tryin' not to rub or bump into each other, seldom look in one n'other's eyes, or smile. Mostly they stares blankly out these windows, or read 'til theys get a headache from bein' in motion. There ain't no joy, nothin' to celebrate, only the blues. It's a kind of purgatory we endure. We jus' sit here whiles time is sucked from us. We ain't got no say in the matter. There aren't no alternatives any of us can afford. An' smilin' to make the best of it ain't what we do in this city.

No, these eyes ain't seen the end of this here story yet. But someday, theys will.