I ride the 403 bus

Home from work

The vibration of cheap plastic seats

Like magic fingers

In an old motel

Two girls get on

And ride the bus like tourists ride a Manhattan subway

With their arms clinging to poles

Despite the bus being half empty

They don’t want to sit next to the three hundred pound welfare case in sweat pants

Or any of the men who are nothing but long beards and work boots.

They stare out the window

Their faces placid masks concealing

A longing

One that only those who’ve stayed in one place their whole lives can understand

A memory of this town as it once was

If not better

Younger