The Ashland bus always reminds me
of the summer when we moved in together
on our own, finally for the first time.
I had waited years for this.
I played house because I wanted to, not because I was
dominated, blinded, impeached.
I remember holding hands as we waited for the
next bus to take us to Our castle.
I remember the specific smell of the sun
and the rush of traffic as I walked most of the way.
The bus still doesn't come on time.
When I am on it, I feel ghostly and severe.
I have no anger inside.
Yet the sweet cinnamon bitterness
of irony still makes me sneeze,
once in a while.
I don't believe in time travel.
I could, though.
I'd like to.
There is a new number 9 bus where I live now.
I don't take it much, because I don't need to.
When I do, I don't remember sunlight and excitement.
This bus is filled with real people, not ghosts.
Mostly teenagers, dressed in gray and navy.
They are impolite and loud and boisterous,
and it helps not to concentrate on memories
I don't think about anymore.
An overwhelming balloon of fear, boredom,
disappointment, excitement, failure and stubbornness
fills my lungs like liquid soap from the store.
I do not turn to you for anything because
I know there is nothing left in either of our
picnic baskets.
The surprise wrapped in chocolate is a duplicate
and we can no longer feign the excitement.
I don't like taking the Ashland bus anymore
because its direction has changed and the
sun doesn't smell the same.
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