The 8 Bus to Waveland/Broadway

In the city a bus can feel like a living room
Not an open square
crowded with strangers of dangerous intent
A bus can be a winding down, near to home
“Route 8 Halsted” hums on cue
You’d recognize that announcer anywhere
Yellow poles glint wavelengths you could spot
even in a dream
Seats you’ve sat in countlessly before
These vantage points are known, scoped out
Items checked off the list
You could call out the driver’s name
familial familiarity
Yet, even now
You pull the wire
Not the one that demands metal brute to stop,
but the taut cord inside your spine
It sets you at attention
It runs you over. Doesn’t pay your medical bills
It hisses
mind reader in this car
backpack with a bomb
Plant your feet, back to the wall, there are people
behind you and you left your knife at home
Rifle through every passenger with your eyes
Watch their feet for impending attack
In this way, the bus becomes unknown

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