Bus
Friday morning:
Been away; work-traveling. Weekend of more work ahead. Dull, misty skies. Mouse in the kitchen. Clothed wrinkly, cupboards bare.
Late. Groggy. Frizzy hair, make-up streaks. Almost miss the bus.
RUN to make it, last one of forty to pile in, the front half full to standing. Push through.
And there, right in the very back corner, with the big, big window and engine thrum to drown out the chatter; where there is secret leg room to stretch and lounge, and a hidden rail for umbrellas; there your favorite seat has been overlooked by the masses.
The haggard day turns on a dime. Gray skies can be so beautiful.
Que Sera Sara? 