In a highway of vehicles
small, compact, and silent,
or loud, groaning, and stinking of exhaust,
there is one whose pungent smell overpowers:

The bus.

A bus so cramped,
that trying to fit both pairs of knees,
two backpacks
and two smiles,
shining so annoyingly bright
for 6 in the morning,
into carpeted seats
is nearly impossible.
But Liana, we did it,
everyday.

A bus that became a home
away from home.
Outside the restraints of brick walls,
leaden with the strains of social status
comes a place where music plays
to the beat friendly teasing,
friendly laughing,
and friendly friend making.

Maybe other busses
were a place to get from here to there,
but our bus,
our bus was different.
It was a place to laugh,
to tell stories,
and lean on a shoulder
when eyes
slowly
droop
close
and the engine rumbles
into the night.