Bus Route

Two dollars and twenty-five cents in
Quarters jangles in my pocket. A
Breeze picks up, brisk air stinging my
Cheeks. Hot coffee tastes bitter, acidic.
Cigarette smoke wafts through the air; it's
Impossible to pinpoint within the crowd.

The mechanical sound of engines
muffle uninteresting conversations.
A, B, C, D...None of the above.
All the sugar in this coffee
Sank to the bottom. This pasty,
Sticky-sweet taste is more than I can bear.
Fourteen, Five, Forty, Sixty.
Still nothing.
My watch reads 9:33.
Any second now...

Twelve's the lucky number, it
Rolls into my field of vision.
Now I've got the power, yes,
Now I'm  really going somewhere. But
So are a few dozen others. Like

The snake-man, whose shifty eyes see all,
Including the girl with the pink-painted face and
The fellow in the crispy alligator boots.
I watch the young man to my left as
he writes notes down on a sheet of music.
Is he recalling a song of love, fancying that
his young lady is bleeding right off the page? Is
He liberating her from the pangs of
his longing, and giving her life
within the melodies
jotted down by his pen?

I'm also seeking freedom, as I
Ride this bus, go
Out in the world, and
Right here on the printed page.