The Ride

Waiting at the old station
for bus, train, or shuttle;
no longer sure which one. 

Voice in the air, gender
and age uncertain:
“You missed the early ride

but the late one’s still on schedule.”
I’m sixty-three and have little time
to wait, I suspect, for that ride.

I have been here before
and I’ve always left the station
under my own power before riding.

Maybe not this time. Maybe 
I’ll take whatever comes for me
with a smile.  Right now, though,

I’m a mess. I’ve got one foot
toward the road away, one 
toward the road back. 

Choice is what’s left,
all that’s left. I hear my ride. 
It’s time.