Aditi Machado

Bus Rides

The bus struggles along, sluggish
projectile. The long sun burns.

I watched the news yesterday
with a goldfish eye. Blinked
sans lid.

We move fatly, stop in jerks.

At the station it’s hard
to pick the next route,

one that won’t leave immense
caesuras in the earth, leave me
gulping like caught fish.

Now the evening shadows
shudder like the broken tick
of a clock, or atoms gone awry.

In the new bus I check the bottom
of my seat for strappings, small black

bodies.