The Bus

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