Transfer

My car's been in the shop since Monday.

I'd forgotten about the rubber floor seam

running down the center of the aisle—

the way you look at it instead of people.

The woman across from me

fell asleep somewhere around Elm and Third.

I watched her head drop, then jerk up

when the brakes caught.

She looked out the window.

Somewhere she didn't recognize—

you could tell by how she read the street,

the signs, the storefront names.

A few seconds.

Then she settled back.

Put her hands in her lap.

Closed her eyes.

Just like that—

wherever she was would do.

I've been riding this bus for four days.

I keep waiting for it to feel

temporary.

The seam on the floor.

The brakes.

Her hands loose in her lap

after she'd decided.