Busin’
by Odin Roark

“Gettin’ To School”

Somethin’ ‘bout city-busin’ to school
beats subways,
or a bike.

For some…

Those who got the bucks,
sharin’ a Uber ride, maybe.
‘Course communal ridin’
can stick ya with a stranger
of a different type,
nasty asses whose eyes might say,
move your butt over,
I’m payin’ half o’ this.

But, busin’…
And I’m not talkin’ the yellow kind,
We’re talkin’ the smoke-belchin,
advertizin’-on-the-side kind.
Know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout?

Gotta love it…

Unlike the subway morning rushhour,
where movin’ ‘bout the stuffed cars is no option.
busin’s better chance for a seat,
even if next to some dude ya don’t know.

‘Cause, ya see…

With busin’, there’s a certain kind of privacy, ya?
I mean, most riders in their right mind
don’t challenge your silence,
play grab ass,
yeah, guys on guys,
it happens a lot on subways,
or elbow ya with some snarky jibe,
stomp your feet,
all that kind a shit.

And for people watchin’?

Busin’s a big ol’ Wow!

You can always find the weird, mind-blowin’ habitual riders,
kind don’t like subways ‘cause they like discarded ancient-fridge types.
We’re talkin’ big, now. Whether white, black, yellow or tan,
hopeless humans billowing their cumulus clouds of sweat-fearing flesh,
cottage cheese diets loungin’ in polyester skin,
fantasizin’ ‘bout a non-sagging double porch swing,
unreal trippers always staring out the windows
that never get a washin’.

Behind their sorry-ass identity hides a ribcage
where body processes, bounce, swag, cycle and prepare
self-loathing galaxies of gases into combustive weaponry
one best keep some distance from.

Unfortunately…

Junk-food-obesity of the starving class is a sad reality,
most going for their doctorates in pessimism,
walkin’ dissertations in entitlement experiments gone bad,
a sad slice o’ corruption’s promises not worth a damn,
poor, lost fools dreamin’ more that ain’t never gonna happen.

But, hey, sadness can always be diverted,
even if it’s with everyday passenger insults
wafting through the density of coffee breath,
stale cigarettes, and old reliable,
usually a couple of last night’s binge on cheap booze
needin’ to sleep it off.

But, best part of a ride…

Once in a while,
a next-seat passenger will say:
“How ya doin’? Nice day, ain’t it?”
or a little kid’ll surprise ya…
“Nice sneaks. Really nice.
Wish they made ‘em my size.”

Big innocent eyes,
little feet, usually in flipflops.
Some so young…
Gives ya pause, ya know?

And…

Like so many of the city’s few special moments,
the kind make ya smile and remember,
well, they’re dwindlin’.
And they seem to always happen
just when you’re getting’ off,
just when you’re made to feel…

Doesn't seem right, ya know?

Shouldn’t be that way.