By Margaret Jane Jones


Breathless, wearing combat boots,

desert camouflage, and

dragging army issue duffel bags—

she climbs aboard at

Boston Airport’s Silver Line Bus Stop.


She glows—freckle-faced,

rain-washed, spirited, strong—

a young and lean five-foot-seven

admired by us past-prime,

oversized riders.


Nodding gallantly, the strong, lean

gauntlet driver of Bean Town streets,

grabs her bags and swings them into the rack.

Headed home for Christmas?


She grins and drops the fare into the box.

From Afghanistan to Vermont,

if I can get there.


She turns, searching for an opening in the isle,

packed to standing room only.   

She moves toward us—a sea of tired travelers

perking-up with this drama, and

parting in warm welcome.


HEY ARMY! Come back here!  

bellows the king of burly drivers

while glancing at his side mirror,

edging his overload into traffic,

heading for South Station.


 With an about-face,

she retraces her steps.



Your money’s no good here,

he chokes

with eyes brimming.


Then, this big-hearted Silver Line Patriot,

slaps her hand with a clapping high-five —

simultaneously returning full fare.


© Margaret Jane Jones    2011-2013