I like the bus

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.
He nods.

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.

To text!
“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!

The stop.

Goodbye blue man. Goodbye hunched lady.

THANKYOU.

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.

Perfect timing.