I like the bus
Posted on June 15, 2018
I like the bus.
You never know who will be on the bus.
The fat man sits.
Blue shirt. Blue jacket. Jeans. Sandals.
Mouthing the words of this poem.
As I write them.
The woman hunched in the corner.
Her dye-THANKYOU-d hair.
Where are we?
Have we missed my stop?
No, we are below the hill. A long ride remains.
Stopped at the light.
A blank mind. The movement has stopped and so has my mind.
But wait! The start!
University… at Mills.
We move again and my thoughts race like borzoi.
I must text the boys soon.
They must know to let me in the building.
I think of times before.
And how I never mentioned how the bus smells clean. A wet clean.
“Three minutes out,” I said, thinking about what I was going to say about what I was going to say.
A new girl enters.
She speaks to herself.
I thought her hair was pink.
But turns out it was only her pocketbook.
I hope my estimate of time is correct.
It is embarrassing to leave one of the boys waiting at the door.
I must pull the wire soon!
Make some edits to former typos.
At the light. More stasis.
We move. The stasis ends.
I pulled it! Yes!
Goodbye blue man. Goodbye hunched lady.
Cross the road, letting the car go first by acting that I wasn’t going to cross.
It breathes fresh here.
I approach the door.
A biker. A walker. A car.
Entrance to the alcove.