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a woman sits on the lurching bus, in her twig-like arms a blue-eyed babe. she smells like talc powder and milk--like my Jasper, my sweet, deceased Jasper, whose eyes were watery when he died at eighty-four; like Loretta, smart and charming, with dark silk for hair and bright grey marbles for eyes (twenty-seven); or maybe even Maria, born to shine in the arts (fifty-three). they were all my children, and now i'm alone. i am bored at two-hundred and fifty-eight: travel is no longer for leisure but necessity---