Poems of the Past and Images of Now

Bus Call

I have warm brown eyes
but your body is wrapped in warm
protecting your ancestors from the wind, from the sea, from the harsh white sun.

And although you prefer machine made cotton, to the organics of past,
a neighborhood, a family, a place still
calls you.
When you leave on the bus each morning
they ask…
Where is she? When is she coming back?

I too prefer the machine made cotton.
After all, it’s cheaper
it’s for us.
And when I leave my iwi says good.
My land has no keeper, if I stay too long
they ask…
What is she doing? When is she going?