#62: Apollo Guys Are Spaced! (Regret)

Well, At First, It's Irritation,
Some Strange New Consternation,
Psychic Insubordination
That Makes You Feel Absurd . . .
Then, Comes Intonation,
And You Feel The Enervation,
The Lines Of Limitation . . .
And Then The Observation,
As Expressed In Eltonation . . .
That "Sorry" Is The Hardest Word.
But Maybe "Sorry's" Sorry-ation
Is Granting It A Station . . .
Well, That's A Possiblation . . .
At Least, That's What I Heard.

Again, the windshield delivered us
a world of crazy sights,
though Jo and I were wincing at
different times in flight.

The Buggy stopped. We looked upon
a city scene and sign.
A cornered street, a bus stop, and
a plaque: "The Rue-More Line."

So, Jo and I got out and walked
up to a common bench.
Thus far, the State just looked to be
a fairly lead poop cinch.

And that is when the bus pulled up
with room enough for us.
We got on board, and didn't pay,
but no one made a fuss.

The driver wore your typical
transit uniform.
She looked at us like criminals.
That seemed to be her norm.

She eyed us in a mirror, and,
she yelled, "Where are your tags?
The station master at Remorse
should have stowed your bags."

We shrugged it off, supposing that,
before too long, we'd find
what the hell was up her sleeve,
and what was on her mind.

We took a look around at all
our fellow, transit fares.
They all just sat, and looked ahead,
like rows of frightened hares.

They hung their heads and wrung their hands,
and maybe held their breath.
"I think we're headed," I said to Jo,
"to someplace worse than death."

And before we'd gotten comfortable,
I read the first stop's sign,
"Welcome To Sorrow - Remorse and Rue,
Further Up The Line."

The stay at Sorrow was pretty short.
A couple, real forlorn,
got on and sat in a couple of seats,
among the better-worn.

The bus moved out, while Jo still held
the card that he had grabbed.
For all we knew, we might as well
have walked or even cabbed.

"Next stop: Remorse . . . and baggage claim,"
the driver yelled again,
and stopped before a loading dock
of bags, and then, she grinned . . .

"Everybody, grab your bags.
Be sure to check your name.
Lots of folks have baggage that
looks very much the same."

So Jo and I got out and found
some luggage marked for us.
"Damn," I said, "how long we s'posed
to travel on this bus?"

Now, luggage of all size and type,
from purse to wooden trunk,
was labeled with descriptions of
all sorts of mental junk.

And the driver started yelling then
that we should check the date.
She pointed right at me and Jo,
"Come on, I'm running late!"

"Jo, we can't get all of this,
and pack it on that bus."
I said, "Let's just grab a bag or two.
That's enough for us."

So, both of us grabbed one small bag
to fit beneath our seat.
The driver frowned at our small load,
but had a time to meet.

The bus took off, as we fiddled with
the tote-bags in our laps.
But, as flimsy as they seemed, we just
could not undo the flaps.

And, we didn't learn 'til later why
both our bags were locked.
But, had we known their contents, we
would really have been shocked.

The driver then announced, "Rue-More,
the last stop on the line!"
She made it sound like punishment
for commission of some crime.

The bus pulled right up next to folks
who didn't even flinch.
I thought so many crowded there,
no one could move an inch.

Bags were piled up everywhere,
all opened and unpacked.
I bumped three guys just trying to get
the bus door slightly cracked.

We stepped out on the station deck . . .
I heard Jo's warning shout,
"Nobody's moving . . . they're statues, Bo.
We'd better check this out!"

The driver didn't speak at all . . .
like, maybe not allowed.
She only frowned and watched us push
our way into the crowd.

"My bag's unlocked," I heard Jo say.
I felt mine open, too.
But we were busy forcing our way
through that mannequin zoo.

And, working our way on through a crowd
as so incredibly dense,
I heard Jo muttering to himself,
"Damn, this makes no sense.

These statues look like living beings,
just stopped right in their tracks,
while searching through their bags and trunks,
suitcases and backpacks."

We made it to the station house,
and through the station door,
where we were met by more of the same
weird statues as before.

"Bo, have you noticed a funny thing?
Every bag is bare.
Maybe something stunned them all
to steal each rider's fare."

"That's one theory, Jo, but I'm
not really sure who'd care.
These empty bags make me wonder if
anything was ever there?

If all these bags held clothes and stuff,
or other real content,
they wouldn't be so barren now.
There'd be some small remnant."

We'd made it through the station, and
out at the other side.
The statues stretched forever, but
their numbers did subside.

And that's when we began to look
for a little more perspective.
Up 'til then, just getting through
had been our prime directive.

"Hey, Jo, maybe it's poison gas,
exploding from their bags?
Holy shit! What's in these things?
The low-life scalawags . . .!

They've slipped us bombs in gym-bags, and
we might have met our end.
Let's dump these things right here and now
before they do us in."

Well, Jo-Mima seemed to understand
everything I said,
and we dropped those bags right then and there,
and took off with a dread . . .

as fast as we could to get away
from bags and frozen folks.
It's amazing, the physical strength a man's
fear of death invokes.

The scary thing that crossed my mind,
the further that we got,
was, didn't the folks who waited to look
have any fearful thought?!

Some horrible need must finally make
a person take a look,
in spite of all the evidence of
the gooses it might cook.

But when it seemed the statues might
stretch to infinity,
I looked up at the open field,
expanse in front of me.

And there it was, maybe fifty yards,
the Buggy sat and hummed.
I conjectured with a relieving sigh,
"Maybe this is dumb . . .

but I don't know a magic word
that'll get us out of here.
I've no idea what this State's about.
Tell me you found it clear."

"I dropped the card back there somewhere,"
Jo said, "but think this trip
had something to do with nosiness . . .
like, could it be gossip?

I figure all these frozen folks
got just what they deserved,
sticking their noses in other people's
bags . . . I mean, the nerve!"

"Yes," I said, "you're thinking that
the station called, 'Rue-More'
was home-base to a gossip-mill,
and that's what this is for?

You're right, I think 'Rue-More's' the word
as printed on the card,
but that don't mean it has to be
this bus stop boulevard.

What if 'Rue-More,' ain't 'rumor,'
but something like 'remorse' . . .
like ruing, philosophically,
might be a kind of force."

"Damn, you boys are stupid, but
given the average toss,
even a coin can use its head . . .
avoiding total loss.

And once again, I see you're both
lucky to be alive.
Somebody must be pulling for you
down there on Level 5.

I believe that yours was just the sixth,
or maybe seventh time,
that Mrs. Shamer's bus was known
to run that far behind.

You didn't grab your bags in time.
Well, isn't that a shame?
You're moving on, and you don't feel
the slightest bit of blame."

"Well, now I know what it all meant,"
Jo expressed himself,
"the bags were full of some regrets
that cast an evil spell."

"Of course, regrets were in the bags,"
the Voice's explanation
made quite clear the reason for
the bus ride destination.

Your transit symbolized all men's
life experience . . .
the introspection of Regret,
and toll of its expense.

Regret is memory, made of thorns.
The only time they vex
is when you let them plant themselves
in soil of your cortex.

All lives collect baggage which
is used to pack regret . . .
often enough to weigh you down . . .
there is no scale or limit.

And that's one way that destiny
keeps you on a tether . . .
while focusing on past mistakes
can stop you all-together.

Those poor souls you wound around . . .
at various times, they chose
to stop and check their baggage, and
got memory over-dose . . .

of things they wish they hadn't said,
or wish they hadn't done . . .
of all the wheels and webs they wish
they hadn't ever spun."

The final words the Voice conveyed
were left as it departed . . .
"You lucked out here, but Boys, you know . . .
all life's trips are started . . .

with a packing phase for what you need,
and deciding what you don't.
Past lessons may be handy, but
a past regret just won't.

Don't hide in rooms, and paint your walls
with guilt . . . no man bears witness
listening to the demons that
tell you it's forgiveness.

Another State will scare you with
the lessons of piety,
while regrets are selfish self-destructs . . .
what wonders irony!

So, when you pack to move from here,
take care at packing time.
Some baggage you might choose to bring
is better left behind."

We stepped into the Phil-Mobile,
and both let out a sigh.
I turned to Jo, "Now, tell me if
you also wonder why . . .

our loads are not of heavy weights,
we don't face title bouts,
but aren't these heavy concepts, still
about to wear you out?"