Ya, ya, ya
by Martin Christmas

Lady, early 80s, white hair, crinkly face, lipstick.
I could imagine her, early 20s, Eastern European
dazzler back in the early 50s.
She clutches a blue shopping bag
waiting for the 10.05am bus.
A good morning to shop.

Ilka, well that’s the name I imagine her
being, stands, shields her eyes,
looks up the road, ‘Vil it evar come?’
Maybe Ilka was a tennis player in Budapest.
No bus comes. ‘Been waiting long?
Ilka, ‘Ya, ya, ya’.

‘Sit’, I say. ‘The bus will come eventually’.
She, ‘I don’t vant to sit!’ and questions
the wisdom of living by a main road.
I reply, ‘Ya, ya, ya’.

She sits. We wait. She stands.
She looks for ‘our bus’. Good eyesight, no glasses,
sporty shades atop her crinkly white hair.
I see the 20s something Budapest tennis player
Stunning. Greta Garbo couldn’t
have done it better. I nearly say,
‘You vonto be alone? ‘but miss the moment.
Maybe Ilka is Swedish.

She sees our bus a few stops away.
‘Vil it stop for us?’ I say, ‘If not,
I will leap into the road and hijack it’.
‘Ya, ya, ya cheeky man. I will punch your body!’
I say, ‘Ya, ya, ya.’
We laugh simultaneously.
She gets on. I get on.

‘You would have been great to make love to
back in 1953 at the Cafe Ruszwurm in Budapest’.
‘Ya, ya, ya, in ya dreams, buster!’

In my imagination, Ilka.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

Copyright by Dallas Poets Community. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.