The bus driver sits alert
as he steers down the streets.
The clock tics,
the city shifts,
and he knows every storefront,
and he doesn't miss a stop--
although he's always slightly late
for the schedule that has bound
this college town.

The blue-speckled seat cradles me,
forehead against a grimy window.
I radiate heat against cold glass
and wipe away the fog.
Squinting I read the names of foreign signs
but my heavy eyelids flutter.

The bus driver sits stiff in his chair
but I am melting in my seat
which is now made of green leather-
and I am 11 years old.
The other kids are gone now,
for it's almost the end
of an hour and a half long route.
It's just me left, on the seat,
my legs extended across the aisle.
My eyes may be closed,
but I know every turn.

The crackle of the loudspeaker
challenges the traffic noise
that has become my silence.
"Anybody still on the bus?"
I sit upright and wave my hands
so that Bob can turn the bus on 16th street
to take me home.