greyhound: a love ode

this tendency to misunderstand the bus
its need for so many wheels
and the forbidding cargo hold of sardine suitcases
happens to the people who think planes are normal
that feeling of anti-motion
of air pressed around like fingers in the ear and throat chewing gum
totally unbirdlike, stale where it ought to soar.
a bus sunrise is unmatched in welcomeness
the old hour where you can no longer bear to see your face
layered in reflections on top of the trees too hard to see at night.
the switching on and off of the reading spotlight ceases
as pink to yellow to blue to unnamed colors sharpen the window dust into shards.
and if its not a wailing baby
usually someone is drunk, uncomfortably by the mennonites and grandmothers.
in this way, stories become tied to seat space
steinbeck seeming so relevant to the stiff knees,
hardy to the soldier doing the disappearing egg magic trick
a page is a turn of the wheel and the story is
the feeling of the pod casing falling open
and peas, rolling into the dawn on wheels that know the way home.