Nikkita And The Buses (Pretty Vacant) Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

A bus was
Brought to a
Disheartening standstill
And so did the
Others
As they sojourned
In front of us.

She was talking
About the rain,
And how it
Sullied her white
Shoes
And I could
Only look
Up and
Blame the
Skies for
The distress
They brought
Unto her.

”I have an idea.”
In my
Tedious voice,
I told her.
”Bus rides.”
And she
Broke into
A peal
Of
Exuberance
As I shattered
Into fragments
Of
Solitude.

We did this
A lot of times,
Regardless if
The roads were
Sunlit
Or
Rain-drenched and
Filthy with
Groaning puddles.
We took
Bus rides
All the
Time,

And it’s as if
In every
Trip
A part of me
Is left
In each of the
Bus seats.

The bus tickets
Hovered
Over the tiny
Isles of
The bus
As the bus
Gave
Brusque
Moans
As it stopped
To gorge itself
With fatigued
Denizens.

Now,
I am left
With an abundance
Of bus fare tickets -
Slivers of myself
Dissipated
On the
Bus floors,
Bus seats,
Bus windows,
Bus compartments,
Bus grotesqueries,
Bus groans,
Bus desolations.

I am a bus underneath
The premature morning:
Emptied,
Docile
And pretty
Vacant.