Late.

There is always that elderly man
sat mumbling profanities while
the white skin of his knuckles is stretched thin
across his frail bones, clutching the orange pole.

And that young woman, with the cotton scarf
and ornately decorated clothing, with headphones
loud enough to detect the bass and constant beat but
too quiet to be a bother to others.

Such as the middle aged man with glasses and briefcase
a book resting in his lap, a tie resting against his book
his white shirt entirely buttoned other than one at the top, his
bald patch scarcely hidden with creative combing and wax.

Snd those retired women, wearing cardigans and fur coats
resenting their children for having bred children who are
undeserving and unappreciative and who don’t carry
the family name with pride and promise.

And that girl, with mussed hair and smudged makeup
who’s uniform is creased and eyes are rimmed red. Who
“missed” the early bus, full to the brim with people who
misunderstand her. Mistreat her. Increase her heart rate and slow her footsteps.

That bus left without her and with it, it took her pride and dignity,
and so she took the late bus. As did the elder and the ornate woman and
the book-reading man and cardigan wearing gossips.
As did black men and white women, Christians and
Muslims, and children and babies and the pregnant, carrying new
life that will one day too share what they all share.

Within the confines of the overheated vehicle, with plastic chairs and the stop bell slightly
off key, they all ride the late bus.