Crosstown Bus

Number 71 never varied;
he was always on time, yet always patient.
In the morning we would catch him,
bleary eyed, yawning, the teenagers
and workers anxious to get on with it.
Gentle chatter would precipitate
the sunrise, glinting sharply from
the right. All the same people;
always the same stories. The
sharp scent of cologne and mouthwash
would assault tender nostrils.
Every stop, anxious faces waited,
like balloons, peering into the distance.
Every morning was the
same, always the same and
sameness became dullness, lethargy.


To get to my job I needed to
make a connection with the number 17
So I would emerge from the bus,
following the same pair of legs as a
group of us, like a nest of ants, would
scurry to catch 17. He, also, was
unvarying, transporting us, all of us
to our lives, our real lives. And I
would sit, unemotional, dreaming, til
my stop appeared and I could go
to work.