I rode the bus that smelled like rain
And vinyl seats and yesterday,
With coins that clinked like nervous dreams
All counting up my hourly pay.
The mall woke up in tiled echoes,
Keys jangling, gates half-asleep,
Mannequins staring straight ahead
Like they knew secrets they would keep.
But first - before the clock could bite,
Before the racks and returns and lore,
There waited me, like sacred ground,
The Woolworth’s lunch counter, bright and sure.
A hot dog stretched in a buttery grin,
A New England bun, all toasted and proud,
Wrapped around a sizzling promise
That snapped just enough - not too loud.
Matchstick fries in a paper boat,
Skinny as hopes, but warm and true,
And a fountain Coke that fizzed and winked
Like it knew what I was about to do.
At home, the fridge said “Pepsi rules!”
On Lincoln Street, that was the law,
Back there in Elmira, loud and loyal,
Pepsi had the final say and awe.
But here I sipped my quiet rebellion
Through a straw with a practiced grin,
No apron, no disguise at all,
Just a guy about to clock in.
Then off I’d go to the selling floor,
Past perfume clouds and register chimes,
Carrying fries in my pockets of thought
And a bus ride home at quitting time.
And even now, if I close my eyes,
I can still feel that simple cheer -
A bun, a bus, Woolworth’s chrome,
And 1981, still here.
GBS jr
2001
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