The 33 Southbound

The smell of diesel,

faint sweat,

and something like old rain

from someone's coat.

The window, blurred

with condensation.

Faces pass, soft smudges

against the gray.

She hums,

two rows up,

a low sound,

like a cracked kettle.

Her hands,

knotted,

clutching a plastic bag.

Just off-key enough.

It’s the same route.

The same dread

settling,

dust on the seats.

The world outside,

a wet smudge.

Nothing to do

but ride it out.