Bus Stuff Poem by Rip Brown

Outside the night
traffic passes at a crawl.
While red tail lights blink.
Inside some sit, some stand,
all patiently bear the journey home,
strangers close to strangers, nobody goes alone.

Breaths mingle, her cough with his whistle.
Drops form on blue interior windows,
none mind. We are one nation, under souls,
who travel together.

Bus stops, leans low, exhales a warm cloud.
In its place boards a fresh breath of air
from the cold of snow.
We inhale.

Next stop my stop I step off.
In my throat I taste gasoline.
Only the winter wind outside to greet me.