Jules

By Susan Miller

 Jules was sinking
and no one really got that.
They’d say hey, how goes it,
what’s up, catch you soon.
She took the 38B in the a.m.;
you could set your watch on that.
You’d see her at the bus stop
in rainbow-colored rain boots,
pink slicker, flowered skirt.
Ear buds dangling between
stringy locks, smudged eyeliner
hiding slits that stared
at ants on the ground.

 You didn’t see scab-pocked
arms where a razor dug in deep
the night before. Or fingernails
that gripped the green lunch bucket,
nibbled into broken skin.
You didn’t hear the rattle
in her head on the dark days
or pay attention when she
crossed the street seven times.

Jules was just always there
standing near the weeds
waiting, waiting for the 38B.
She was always going somewhere,
the girl who was going nowhere.


Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY newspaper who enjoys creative writing as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, including Whimsical Poet, The Dillydoun Review, Gemini Magazine, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Under the Bridges of America, Sandy Paws and the Arlington Anthology. She had a short story published in Beach Life.

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