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
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