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Description
+ . R I D E . +

A girl sits at the back, alone in her corner.
Her knees are pressed up to the black guard
Between her and the seat before her.
She's dressed as if she's wearing everything she owns.

A too-large jacket, a hooded sweater,
A rather skimpy tank top with sparkling scales,
Dust-stained jeans that are frayed at the edges,
And scraped up sneakers.

She has a continuous glare,
Perhaps it's unintentional.
She glares at people who walk past her,
At the emptiness she stares at all the time,
At the lamposts and grass that pass her window.

Her face is powdered too white,
And a rouge was applied to lie about her cheeks.
She doesn't mean to glare,
Her head is just always hanging down
Lower than it should be.

There are two talking girls near the front,
They speak loudly, as if they owned the cramped area,
As if no one could hear their very private conversations.
One has tightly plaited blond hair, large eyes,
And a pouting mouth, the other has stark brown hair,
She tosses it freely about her shoulders.

They're both too loud.
They invade everyone's privacy with their noises,
The noises that are supposed to mean something,
But say nothing at all. Space-fillers, physically,
And sound-wise.

He has an easy smile that belies his easy-to-anger eyes.
His hair points in such a way that reminds one of ravens.
It's too long and is doused in gel.
The smear of scab across his cheek announces
The kind of life he leads.

As I get off the bus, I can see their eyes on me.
The loud two-pair, the glaring darkened ones,
The maddened glazed ones, the quiet wrinkled ones
Of the woman who sat behind me.
Perhaps my next bus will be emptier.

Description
+ . R I D E . +

A girl sits at the back, alone in her corner.
Her knees are pressed up to the black guard
Between her and the seat before her.
She's dressed as if she's wearing everything she owns.

A too-large jacket, a hooded sweater,
A rather skimpy tank top with sparkling scales,
Dust-stained jeans that are frayed at the edges,
And scraped up sneakers.

She has a continuous glare,
Perhaps it's unintentional.
She glares at people who walk past her,
At the emptiness she stares at all the time,
At the lamposts and grass that pass her window.

Her face is powdered too white,
And a rouge was applied to lie about her cheeks.
She doesn't mean to glare,
Her head is just always hanging down
Lower than it should be.

There are two talking girls near the front,
They speak loudly, as if they owned the cramped area,
As if no one could hear their very private conversations.
One has tightly plaited blond hair, large eyes,
And a pouting mouth, the other has stark brown hair,
She tosses it freely about her shoulders.

They're both too loud.
They invade everyone's privacy with their noises,
The noises that are supposed to mean something,
But say nothing at all. Space-fillers, physically,
And sound-wise.

He has an easy smile that belies his easy-to-anger eyes.
His hair points in such a way that reminds one of ravens.
It's too long and is doused in gel.
The smear of scab across his cheek announces
The kind of life he leads.

As I get off the bus, I can see their eyes on me.
The loud two-pair, the glaring darkened ones,
The maddened glazed ones, the quiet wrinkled ones
Of the woman who sat behind me.
Perhaps my next bus will be emptier.