you smell like a memory
a 50 person charter bus only carrying 28
i don't want to let you hear my heartbeat
but i can feel your breath on the inside of my elbow

we have nothing in common
except the day of the week
today we are friday

you are thinking about a two hour time difference
june july and august

'i'm living in the moment,' you say
i nearly kick my legs through the glass of the window
tiny imprints, evidence of a nap on your shoulder

'i'm living in the moment,' you say
and i dip my french fries in your subtle charm
tasting sweet and salty all at once

'i'm living in the moment,' you say
i plant flowers in your ears
but you wait for them to grow

'i'm living in the moment,' you say
'but i'm not that kind of guy'

sit on the bus
shiver in pain
don't know where to go
needed out of the rain

shaky knees
squealing brakes
doors open wide
welcome the embrace

Faces lost in blank expression

Wait in stasis for their stop,

Shuttled from one potential

To the next like letters

In a mailman’s bag.

The sounds and smells of strangers,

The uncomfortable touches,

The squeezing in spaces,

The jerking rhythm of the ride,

The pram queens who sag

Against the railing

While their kids twist and turn

And scream at the lack of fun

In the faces of blank expression,

While couples tongues quietly wag.

Youthful monsters sit at the back

Playing tunes for the irritation

Of the old school music hacks,

While grandma dozes against the glass,

Shopping drawn up like a wall

To protect her from her past.

Father and daughter

Playing a game,

Sitting next to two lovers

Who are doing the same.  

The tickling natter of friends,

The glare of phones,

The lying dog’s stare.

Life on the buses,

A slice of people

For the cost of a fare.

Together, each day, in San Francisco on Christmas at the wharf, following our envisioned dream,
Youthful and childlike, the dock of boats and the ocean shore, standing in front of the Christmas tree,

That day, the day I first saw you, where you got sick and they let you off, sitting only a row behind, just over to the side,
At the meeting place, on the field trip watching you at the dusty Mission from a short distance, I felt something changing inside,

Together, at the piano in the square, playing our song "The Busride," our busride we share, that fateful day,
Every night, our whimsical moments together, in the ivory golden light of the moon, both asleep and at play,

The sidewalk, she runs toward me with her backpack, giggling she tries to smack me with it, then I remember,
You running towards me, clutching your lunch pail trying to land a friendly blow, three innocent lovers, September,

She's always been like a sister to me, and you, playful and boyish, like a total opposite, such unique treasures,
Breaths taken like the sea, onward like this music of hours, magical notes washing up on the shore in even measures,

Together, wishing and dreaming a dream so true, the petals I pick, the field of endless flowers,
I'm still on that bus, tomorrow, now and for all time, for the rest of my life, every moment, this eternal bus ride of ours,

Rain falling on and on to impart,
bringing the flowers a cordial of life,
With her laughter echoing afar.

That day-our busride, together...

there is a woman
who drives
the bus I take to school in the morning
I always wonder, more often than not
why she works on a bus
it must be tedious and boring
running the same route over and over again
dealing with girls like me
who
more often than not
forgot their money
she is pretty, young
wears expensive sunglasses
but she drives the high school bus
full of loud, rude kids
instead of something
she would find more
appealing.
but maybe she likes the repetition, the change
the power of driving us each day
maybe she relishes our little lives
in her hands
which grip the steering wheel
as she navigates the streets
maybe she enjoys the challenge
of wide turns and
negotiating her way through the streets like
an overweight pedestrian
on a busy sidewalk

Faces unknown, side by side;
Cooperating and mingling;
Looking for a better spot, and yet,
heading the same way.

Everyone becomes equal,
Everyone pays the same fare,
Everyone has a life,
Each as complex as the rest.

Every face is new,
Every mood different.
holding some mystery,
Each different,
None less or more.

A game of patience;
Waiting to reach the end of one path,
And the beginning of another.
A hurry to get up, and get down.

A bus, a metro, a train,
An auto and an aeroplane,
The modest pace of a tram,
The coziness of a shuttle van.

The stories in a public transport,
Are things I wouldn't wanna miss.

I shall never, for the life of me,
Stop traveling in public transport.
Without it, I wouldn't be me.

You can't safely have a cigarette outside of the bus terminal
without a couple of folk asking for one.
You can't safely have a cigarette in general.
But, if five of them have to last you a night and a sunrise,
you don't really mind turning down a few nameless hands.
Some of the bus drivers like to talk about football, weather;
others complain about management or the patrons;
a few don't say much at all, avoiding sympathy.
They're probably the smart ones.
They don't want to learn the sad stories in between stops.
I usually like to just sit in the back and ride out the best bumps.
The handrails jiggle and crash with every pothole.
-
The men who work at the metal scrap yard
usually get on in front of Debbie's Diner on 22nd street.
Bundled up for warmth and firm of face, they only speak to each other.
Small talk about who almost missed the bus, broken crane joints,
and who moved the most barrels of copper piping fill the blocks.
They tend to pick on the guy who runs the aluminum can crusher;
big guy, they call him "Boose" and he couldn't be much older than I am.
His hands and lips are dry and cracked from exposure,
but his face still shows ember of teenage years, though jilted.
There is a bar that serves three-dollar chili across the street, spicy.
The workers go there when they miss the first bus, have a beer,
down a bowl of boiling chili, and catch the return bus in better moods.
-
The railroads on Brush College road tend to hold up traffic.
The ADM plant doesn't really mind if a few twenty-something mothers
are late to their practical nursing and phlebotomy classes,
but they voice their complaints out of a cracked window to the side
of a ten story soybean silo nonetheless; steaming ears and all.
I stare at the graffiti on the laggard train cars, each unique
in color, quality, style, and message; the industrial Louvre.
These waits sometimes last a half hour or more.
In the days before Pell grant rewards come in,
when students still feel like they're working toward tangible cash,
the seats are all packed with heavy breathers.
The air becomes thick with community college carbon coughs.

At fourteen, I didn't deserve to be in this way of being. Eyebags 4 years young and a newly broken heart, stubborn for loving the wrong person over and over. That is one of the stories I have under the crease on my face I'll have when I'm 93 and dying. If only I lasted till then for my smoke filled lungs are turning old and my throat is constantly burning. The etching thought of you still in my head none of which anything could take away but thank god for dying into new at 14 because now I don't love you as much as I did and maybe this is God's way of saying I'll be okay. But what do I know about all these *******,I'm 14 anyways