The Bus

Written by: Tanika Cooks

Get up and go

Foul smells assault my nose

taking all my senses in its strong hands and draining the life from them

I struggle to breathe 

A woman—her age, sad as her condition pulls her crippled body off and away 

I feel the wheels moving under my lightly shod feet 

I want them to move faster

A man who controls only parts of his body rolls his donated disgusting chair out 
of the way

So those with useful appendages will not be hindered 

Silent I consider my faults