Cities, Poetry, Reflections, Society
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The Bus (in America)

It’s always darker in here.
There are days without light.
Even those loud colors
are subdued on the upholstery.

Then there are the bangs,
shocks and impacts,
direct hits of the road
rattling up backs and spines.

Rain dampens the floor
with sun baked crumbs,
gums and who knows what
left behind, left forgotten.

The morning swell through the doors
of untold routines and responsibilities.
These weary eyes and ears
time for signs to disembark.

Yes, all is trapped,
on routes dictated by stops.
Outside the window,
single passengers throttle by.

It struggles to navigate
the sea of more nimble cars.
It struggles to maintain
a timely pace.

Waiting could mean five minutes
or twenty, with a near miss.
Sometimes, a short sprint is required.
It doesn’t wait.

A suit and tie is rare
among sweaters and hoodies,
just as an unwashed shirt
always lingers in the corners.

It’s a decisive non-decision,
collectively by those whose
only way to get somewhere,
is trapped together with some bodies.

– Fu Lien Hsu
Oct 27, 2016

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