Art of the Commute

My head leans back
and I jerk as it comes in contact
with the sold concrete of
a trashcan.

Reflective of my day,
I think to myself
and furrow my brow to the sound
of another screaching
beeping
squeaking
braking
bus.

I hide in my music
and the let melodies wash over my
tired ears andmind-
at least their tunes aren't liable
to throw
or toss
or wear
me down.

Or at least not this song.

The bus arrives and I climb in,
dragging each limb in,
in an attmept to keep my brain in.
But as more people enter and stack
arm to arm
back to back,
there's suddenly a laughing girl
on my lap.

I sigh and face the window
and try to ignore the smog
and the long ride that is left.
She soon leaves my bubble
and I mentally shake myself off,
to rid of the sweat-
a sick threat;
the rubble.

The brakes squeal once more
as my body bumps and jumps
over the uneven pavement.
I'm at my next stop
to start
the next part
of the art
of the commute.

...If only that guy would move his arm.

Copyright 2009, Colleen Sarah Rice