“Public Transportation” by Natasha Hochlowski

I’m cheap—
a three dollar bus ride sounds better than a twenty dollar cab.
I climb the grimy steps,
as dirt-covered and ancient as those leading down to my grandfather’s cellar.
The smell is overwhelming,
smoke and grass and grease and laundry detergent and cheap cologne and rotting vegetables and Chinese food and baby powder.
I take the first seat available to me, two rows behind the bus driver with his
old, saggy skin and tired grey eyes and long, curling white hair.
In front of me, a young woman with
skin the color of molasses grabs onto a young boy’s shoulder before he can run into the aisle.
Laughter comes from behind, and I turn around
as three elderly men tease a young woman about her new haircut.
The buzz of the community
overcomes the hum of the engine
as I am caught up in this mini city.
Out of place,
an outsider looking in,
I wait for my stop.