Blog of literary hijinks and the dudnering whirl of expatriotic vitriole.


those kind of jobs.

I take the second to last number nine, down ashland, so as not to wet my library loans. Today has been on and off, the rain, but mostly on when I am off, work.

There are two of us, the busdriver and i. I sit near the front because, secretly, I want to read this book aloud, if he would like to hear.

We could chew bubble gum and spit into the aisle and laugh until our eyes burn, until the third shift is over, until the end of the line.

He takes a transfer card from the trash and uses its lateral edges to wipe the beads of rainwater, amber and trembling, from the sideview mirror.

The city is having trouble breathing. The pigeons are huddled beneath the underpass. The disjointed doors open clatteringly and I descend

through the wordlessness,
without turning to watch
the wake close behind us.


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