The Bus

Whoosh.
Here I go again.
I can already feel it,
The feeling of being alone,
When you’re enshrouded with people.
I hear the soft murmurs of passengers.
The mother shooshing her child,
The pounding of the rain on the cold metal roof.
I see its past in the worn vinyl seats.
Many faces,
Many people,
All here to get from place to place.
They’d take a car or a cab if they could.
But the truth is they can’t,
Whether they’re too poor to afford it,
Or if the law has kept them from it.
Their faces show the truth,
Draped with sadness and despair.
The bus isn’t just a cheap ticket around,
It’s a cheap ticket out.
Whoosh.