truth

Bus

Swerving, we spot lights

Craning our necks

We are “we” no longer, as the bus clanks open

Its tattoed dirty arms

I am falling

Little steps backward, forward,

Nothing to hold on to, swaying wildly

In the bus’s dance

Distracted by swirling

Thoughts of papers, people,

Swishing and pushing by with

Momentary closeness

(mall flowers, fresh

sweat, soup fills the air)

Disgusting or confusing, or

Perhaps forgotten

As I tumble off the steps

Delivered to a liquor store’s bosom

I walk home, breathing in

stir-fry mixing into dusk

A  resting shadow against pastel houses