#50

Punctuation rain pecking at gray windows as the world wooshes by. The bus lumbers, lurches to a stop. A woman moves over and another takes her seat in wordless commute choreography. Bus bounces, thunks, thumps along as a woman smears dark onto eyelids with a practiced precision. A solemn silence as elbow clacks elbow, hip bumps hip, shoe scuffs shoe. I hop off into the pungent peppery scent of weed, the rumblings of motors, the cacophonous clatter of construction. A man runs to catch the bus I was on, the cluster of doves in his way taking flight to scatter from his path. Their fat bodies lazily land again, as if he were never there.