I hope this bus doesn’t crash; rain greases the tires like WD-40 puddles on a rusted door hinge, an accident looming with every late brake. Relaxing in a chair eyes flicker shut, screeches from tires echo on crunching metal, glass collapses on the rough gray asphalt, scatters amongst every seat; a collage of red droplets and pink scabs on my forearm.
As I pick the shards that nicked my bones and scooped my marrow, I notice the empty seats; garnet cushions stained scarlet, taste of iron on my tongue; petrified looks on several wan faces, though their eyes look almost lonely, seeming to yearn, maybe a goodbye, or another breath to scream for help; lump in the throat can’t be gulped away, choke on engine fumes as I stumble out the front window, staring back at what is now a Dali painting; melting frames welded to the ground. I fix my wrinkled shirt, pull up the shreds of my pant legs, and I look into the shadow filled sky; rain washes over me, maroon puddles at my ankles.