Bus

I am on a bus that smells like people were allowed to smoke on here once
Residual scents that tell a story of a thousand or more bottoms on seats
Some sat here for just one journey, never again revisiting this corner of an unfamiliar city
Others would have sat right here every day, irked if another got here first, living the same routine every day until they weren’t
Teens pouring on at the end of a day in town, laughing, cajoling, pushing, shoving, shouting out “bet you fancy her!”
Prams containing, restraining, toddlers who just want to explore, or lean back with stillness transfixed by the elderly man with a twinkle in his eye
Babies held up against the window, no-one knowing if it is the world outside or the cold sensation of the glass on their tongues that hold their attention
Maybe a hundred different drivers have sat at the helm, the lives of thousands entrusted to their skill, met at best with a “good morning” or a “cheers drive” on exit
Perhaps people fell in love on this old bus, met their best friend, found jobs, argued or reconciled after years of not seeing each other
This is a space with a million untold moments, stories that matter most to those who lived them and missed by those who didn’t
This old smelly bus is a treasure trove of humanity, it’s good to be here

naomi sarah