Orange

Something unsettling here,
a vague recollection watching
passengers board the last
orange route of the day;
once I reach my destination,
this bus heads to the garage
to sleep off the evening's
conversations and prepare
for a brand new onslaught.

But for now, I'm listening
to a tall man with a high voice
and a long blond ponytail who's
showing some other riders what
they gave her at Goodwill.
"Try it on," they say.. "see if
it fits." A woman's jacket, warm
for winter. These days sometimes
you just can't tell. She bears a
strange resemblence to Jar-Jar Binks.

And driver Sam rumbles on, rambles on,
pushes the big machine forward, through
ins and outs, side streets toward
Englewood, carrying the load of separate
conversation with each... that Sam...
sure loves to talk.

Slows to a stop for the dysfunctional
woman with the everpresent bulky cargo
on wheels, everyday with that Rubbermaid
storage tub held in place by two bungee
fasteners, parked inside now, at the
entrance. Folks can't exit, they're
stumbling trying to pass, Darlene gives
them each the evil eye.

Sam is whistling a tune of relief
once Darlene reaches her stop,
watches as she pulls the load behind
her on down the street.
"I swear she must be carrying around
her dead husband in that thing, its
like her shadow..."

Chuckles all around, its the running
joke. Then immediately on to the next
topic.. the Chiefs, religion, politics,
anything and everything, Sam's got
something to say and says it even
when no one's there to listen..
I like to think he's just practicing
for the next day.