The Bus Riders Four white plaster people, three seated, one standing. One reading, three staring with blank white eyes. Lurch of the bus, the smell, the exhaust, the squeal of the brakes as the bus lumbers to another stop. The seats around these figures, the seats that are not there, fill with people who are not there. The bus, accelerating, slowing, accelerating. screeching, exhausting, groaning, grinding. slowing, stopping These mute figures and their invisible neighbours can get off or they can stay on jostling, bumping, swaying, staring all the way to the end. Ruth Bavetta Ruth Bavetta writes at a messy desk overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Her poems have appeared in North American Review, Nimrod, Rattle, Slant, American Journal of Poetry, and many other journals and anthologies. She likes the light on November afternoons, the music of Stravinsky, the smell of the ocean. She hates pretense, fundamentalism and sauerkraut.
2 Comments
10/15/2022 02:39:29 am
Love this poem, Ruth, especially how naming the people and seats not there made it feel like they were there.
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Nina Bennett
11/15/2022 09:13:35 am
The sparse lines are packed full of images. Wonderful poem!
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July 2025
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