The Number Three Bus On A Rainy Day

I board,
Sodden and numb.
Flashing my pass at the driver's blank
Face, I traipse up the grey
Aisle and find my place.

A pause,
Like a shaky breath.
Gathering its thoughts, the bus
Loudly grumbles on, a bawdy
Grandmother who smokes forty a day.

Rain bleats against the window.
I press my forehead to the cool
Glass, seeing beads trickle, slimsy,
Transparent; belying red welts on my arms.

In fact,
The whole world is muffled.
I am trussed in blue moquette
And guarded with orange metal.
I am alone, and alone with everyone.

The End

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