Bussing Back to Southy

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Drenched by the warm spittle of October rains,
We huddled, ankles crossed, cheeks puffing,
In seats intrinsically chosen from habit,
For viewpoint, by ease—
Enduring together the drama of each 90-degree turn and
The driver’s impatient horn toots as
The Financial District neatly zipped up behind us. 

It was at that moment
During one particularly forgettable red light that
We zoomed to a stop and a clang.
Down the step rolled the empty can of an energy drink,
Whose din comically broke the lull
As we questioned silently with eyes awakened, laughing,
Who might need more from a weather-some day? 

It lolled down the aisle, crisply rolling,
Playing hide-and-seek under chair shadows
And teased with the thought of crossing
The driver’s yellow line. 

Turning, it came to me and I lifted
My now-warmed legs for its passage as
We neared my stop.
When my ankles touched down, it kissed my right sole
And I gathered my things.

Perhaps Elizabeth Bishop had never heard of or travelled to South Boston,
But I felt I’d found my moose.


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