The bus

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 06, 2018

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Submitted: July 06, 2018



The bus


The bus is a place of stories

A place of people

People with intense and vivid lives

That young man over there

With the flowers

And the ring box in his pocket

Everyone knows his story

Especially because he can’t shut up about it

But who can blame him

He’ll be married in a year

The kid in the back corner

With his hood on

And his head down

He’s addicted 

To what I don’t know

But the way he shivers 

In a hoodie

On a 96 degree day

Gives it away

Within the month 

He’ll either be in jail or overdose

Either one stops his pain

The woman sitting adjacent to me

Reading a book

Is so invested 

That she might miss her stop

The tips of he fingers are callused

She uses a typewriter 

A lot

Based on her current choice

She’s writing the next great mystery 

Her cats and a glass of wine her usual date

But she’s not going home tonight

For she’s not writing the next great mystery

But living it

She won’t be heard from again

At least in America 

The man holding the pole tightly

Talking to it like a respectful lover

Telling it that it reminds him of his ex

“Cold and stiff” those were his exact words

She died in his arms

They were climbing up a mountain 

They couldn’t outrun the roaring of the avalanche

Survivors guilt 

It brought along many mental illnesses with it

In two months to the day 

He’ll run out in front of this very bus

That will stop inches from him

And a wealthy passenger will save him

By taking him in

Giving him money

For therapy 

For food

For a new life

And he’ll be one of the few

Who they call a success story

I then notice the man in the windows reflection

Starring back at me

I can’t pick out the subtle qualities 

The ones I do in everyone else

Maybe it’s because I know my life

Maybe it’s because I’m searching 

Rather than seeing

But I sit back


and wonder

what stories people come up with for me

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