Stop Requested
Westbound on the #5 bus.
9:04 AM, Friday.
Resting my weary haunches from standing, waiting on this same vessel of human cattle to work, corporate chattel to jerk.
A woman, 50 or so, sits to my left.
A man in his 20s flanks my right side.
She performs the sign of the cross–Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Father, Son, Holy Spirit–repeatedly.
I wonder what she did last night.
The man thinks he’s slick and tries to hide his 40-ounce bottle of Steel Reserve. Dude’s got some steel nerve.
I wonder what he did last night.
The gentleman gives me a look similar to the ones the Skid Row fellas give you if you creep too close to their territory or property.
I hit him back with a face that only a motherfucker could love. A head nod. He acknowledges. His shoulders gradually slope in relaxation. He’s cool now. He knows. His secret is safe with me.
She’s been at this prayer for a whole 10 minutes now. Whatever she’s hoping for, I hope she gets it. She’s put in a lot of work.
The aisle’s clear for once. No one’s standing in the pathway, blocking others’ progression or digression. But it doesn’t matter. Everyone’s in a seat. There’s no movement here. Everyone’s happy where they are.
The wheels on the bus go round and round, while the rest of us look down at the ground or stare at our phones or just peer off into the mild blue yonder.
No one talks. We’re all just content. With whatever this is.
The driver doesn’t even stop. No frequent stops.
There’s no movement here.
There’s plenty of movement fear.
No one here realizes.
Movements have started on vehicles like this one.
Those were the days. When things were worth fighting for.
When causes were worth writing for.
When ideas were birthed, inciting war.
Too comfortable these days, no one’s inspiring more.
Everyone’s satisfied. Everyone’s satiated.
Full as ticks. Full of it. Full of shit.
That goes for me, too.
I realize that I’ve been in this seat for some time now.
Got comfortable in this thing.
It was brand new when I first sat down.
But now I can feel the springs.
We spring forward just to fall back on the past, dear.
Take a nice rest on your laurels from last year.
I want to give you change like a cashier. There’s no movement here.
So I brush the dust off my jeans. Sweep the cobwebs from my shirt.
Tighten up my bootstraps. Get ready to hit the dirt.
Stand my ass up and tug on the cord.
Screeeeeeeech! The driver flings open the door.
I step off…into the infinite.
At first, it’s scary, but so is everything worth anything.
The bus lurches forward, on the road all alone.
Ladies and gentlemen, next stop: destination unknown.
There’s no movement there.
I can’t be a part of that anymore.
Any part of that can’t be more.
Of what I’m looking for.
I’ll make my own path. You should, too.
Join me
Or
Move.
Think Ink|Thinq Inq 