Late Bus

I'm on the 44 again and it's late. The sun set long ago and the dark of night waits patiently just outside the bus window. Inside this metal box it's warm and smells faintly of urine and body odor. The 44 always smells like this. This route uses some of the oldest buses in the city. The seats hold the scent of previous occupants like a sponge soaks up spilled coffee. Only this sponge has yet to be wrung out and replaced.

I watch people and notice that no one is watching anyone else. They look straight ahead, look down, play with their phones, their ipods, read books or magazines. I look at them not looking at me and wonder who they are and what their lives hold for them.

I wonder when they are going to lay these old, rickety steal boxes to rest.