The Girl on the Bullard Overpass

Peter Everwine

The girl on the Bullard overpass

looks happy to be there, getting soaked

in a light rain but waving her hands

to the four o'clock freeway traffic

in which I'm anything but happy.

You might think she's too dumb

to come in out of the rain, but rain

or shine, it doesn't seem to matter.

She's there most every afternoon,

as if she does this for a living.

Some living, I'd say. Doesn't she ever

get bored, or wish someone would stop

and say, "Where to?" and her life would change?

That's how I'd be, hating the noise,

the stink of exhaust, the press of people.

I can't imagine what her life is;

mine is confused and often fretful.

But there's something brave about standing alone

in the rain, waving wild semaphores

of gladness to impatient passersby

too tired or preoccupied to care.

Seeing her at her familiar station

I suddenly grin like a fool, wave back,

and forgive the driver to my right,

who is sullen and staring as I pass.

I find her in my rear-view mirror,

then head for a needed drink and supper.

I don't know where she goes, but I hope

it's to a place she loves. I hope the rain

lets up. I hope she's there tomorrow.