Matthew Mulder
Last Bus
Chickadees fly through the rafters of the Transit Center,
As the sullen sky inhales clouds of bus
Riders waiting for transfer. Bus eight pulls up, sighs and spill
Passengers onto the hot pavement. We board. Bus driver
Steps outside, smokes a cigarette, eats a protein bar, and walks
To the rest room. We wait helpless in our vinyl seats,
Listening to the gargle of the diesel engine,
Smelling the odors of a day's worth of transportees.
Bus driver returns. Bus lurches backward, forward as the
Driver launches from the platform, honks once, turns right,
Jerks left, honks again, snakes along the urban arteries.
Man in front of me smells of wet paint.
Man behind me smells of too many broken bottles and empty dreams.
Woman in a back seat consoles her crying child.
Woman in front squeezes her cell phone to make it ring.
Up to Shiloh, follow Caribou's path and bump around the bend to home.
Bus stops, I drop heavily from double doors and
Walk down the street at sunset to a small path with
White stones and blue spruce—returning to a
Place guarded by red cardinals,
Black salamanders and yellow honey bees.
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