on bus rides

One. Is the number on the dollar bill you use to snort lines.

Two. Is the number of bags of crystal meth you stuff down your socks.

One in Three. Is the number I can’t wrap my mind around as I subconsciously count off, converting faces to percentages; those in front of me to those behind bars.

Four. Is the number of Taco trucks, music playing and friends mingling beneath dim streetlights.

Eight. Is the number of men hiding in dark shadows keeping watch over flocks by night.

Nine. Is the number of stops requested.

Eleven. Is the number on the clock.

Twenty-six. Is the number of restless girls on lonely corners, between 2nd and 61st.

Fifty. Is the number of shots fired when a drive-by and an ambush collided yesterday. I hear my friend tell me.

Sixty-five. Is the number of years lived. She mumbles chaotically, her body closed in on itself.

Full. Is where I start.

Scattered. Is where I end.

Voices and non-voices and music and resignation. Is what I hear.

Sorrow. And discomfort. And heaviness. Is what I feel, as I gaze out the window at the light and the un-light passing by in the cool outside.

One. Is the number of the bus I ride.

6 thoughts on “on bus rides

    1. Thanks Philip. I don’t write all that regularly but am trying to get into better rhythms. I’ve dedicated Friday as blog day (although the one-a-day-blog over-achievers make that feel like I’m sorely lagging behind!)

      1. I love being able to seeing into someone else life so once a week is fine and i followed you so I’ll see whatever ones you post

  1. i think it’s amazing that you’re blogging more lady and once a week feels like the perfect next step for you so keen on – quality over quantity. you rock! [your biggest fan]

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