Some days the rain comes down
in giant waves,
turning bus 351 suddenly into
a submarine, ancient ark
gliding just above the ocean floor.
Two by two we sit
in rows on each side of the aisle,
staring out the giant
square portholes
as our collective breaths fog the glass.
We glide along the current of other submarines,
passed on either side
by schools of pedestrians
and bicycles swimming their way toward nearby reefs.
The captain with his impossible turns
lumbers miraculously around every outcropping,
as the blip of each approaching stop
alerts him that our fellow seamen
are prepared to dive.
We slow to a pause,
the hatch opens with a soft hiss,
and they glide, one by one,
silently
into open water.
in giant waves,
turning bus 351 suddenly into
a submarine, ancient ark
gliding just above the ocean floor.
Two by two we sit
in rows on each side of the aisle,
staring out the giant
square portholes
as our collective breaths fog the glass.
We glide along the current of other submarines,
passed on either side
by schools of pedestrians
and bicycles swimming their way toward nearby reefs.
The captain with his impossible turns
lumbers miraculously around every outcropping,
as the blip of each approaching stop
alerts him that our fellow seamen
are prepared to dive.
We slow to a pause,
the hatch opens with a soft hiss,
and they glide, one by one,
silently
into open water.