Drifting

Drifting on the

Hazy edges of the

Second, secret lives

We all live

_

Bumping in and out

Of consciousness

On a bumpy road somewhere between

One wilderness

And another

In Honduras or maybe

Guatemala

(Who can remember all these

Picky details

After all these years?)

All was green outside the bus,

Except a young man walking

In a faded white t-shirt and

Faded orange cap and

Surprisingly new-looking black jeans and

I wondered where the hell

He was walking to

As the heat attempted

A pirate's boarding party

Crashing through cracked-open windows

Held back by a

Valiant old aircon unit and

Suddenly

On the edge of this false sleep:

_

I understood.

_

Two old men

Talking

In the seats in front of me

The rhythm the

Cadence

The words

Flowing into my memories

Where snatches of Spanish

At some time

Were stored.

Brought forth

By the rocking motion

Of the bus.

I hardly dared

Breathe

In case I woke

My mind tricked into

Thinking I was asleep instead of this state

In between

Where all language is

Understood.

_

They spoke of nothing more important

Than life

Just life

And every word

I understood and

Bump!

Went the bus and

I dreamed myself

Awake.

_

The two old men

Still chatting on

In front of me

And I understood

Not a word.