Bus Fare

Exhaust fumes
And the roaring of the engine
Her lips mouthing words
That I cannot hear
Over the monotonous rumble
Of the engine

She’s the last passenger
Holding everyone else up
Her arms full of shopping bags
Trying to retrieve her bus fare-
One dollar, fifty cents
The bus driver waits
Tapping his fingers against his thigh

The quarters fall from her hand
The machine swallows them whole
The dollar sliding in soon after
And she makes her way
To the back of the bus
To my part of the bus
To my own little sanctuary

She sits down next to me
The shopping bags rustling
Her clothes smelling
Of musty cigarette smoke

Her head turns to me
And over my blaring headphones
She asks
“Do you have a dollar,
Or some quarters, for bus fare?”
I shake my head “No”
She looks disappointed