More time

The day before my position is eliminated,
the #8 bus driver slides my transfer
a little further down below the metal bar
before he tears it, telling me
he’s going to give me more time.

With gratitude for every instant, I ask him
“Isn’t that what everybody wants?”
He mumbles, “I don’t know about that.”
Maybe he’s bored or lonely,
time stretching out before him
like the frozen Arctic or the stomach-clenching
reach of outer space.

But me, I’m as curious as a three-year-old
with a stick and a big black beetle
on a sunny afternoon. “You can give me
all the time you like,” I say.
“I promise to take good care of it.”