The southeastern city of Lyon
smells of gingerbread and cigarettes.
Standing at it's airport terminal
(named for some famous French author)
I wait in English for a mountain bound bus
to carry me and my luggage far from here.
Waiting with me are a gaggle of boarders
sure to have marijuana in one of their many pockets
a Midwestern couple whose orthapedic shoes reveal them
and a quiet businessman who's been sittting on his suitcase like a stool.
As the bus pulls up they line up
like migrant workers and feed their tickets
to the nameless driver.
Before closing the door he steps outside
to smoke a cigarette.
I can only assume his wife is at home
baking gingerbread.
One Lyonese couple just doing their part.
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