Most days, I travel to and from work by Madison Metro bus, which allows time for reflections, observation, and an occasional nap. Sometimes, the trips provide entertainment and inspiration. Here are a few of the pieces of poetry and prose composed on a bus seat:
# # #
Falling, falling November snow,
Crawling, crawling, going slow,
When will I get where I want to go,
At this point, I just don't know.
# # #
Boarded the bus, but to sit there is no place,
Alas, school kids occupy much of the sitting space,
Late comers left to stand in the aisle,
But know that this all will change in just another mile.
Soon that fateful stop arrives,
Doors open, students emerge like bees from hives,
And in the wake of this daily kerfuffle,
Standers become sitters, and so goes the morning Metro shuffle.
# # #
"What would you do if I sang on the bus? Would you move to another seat? ..."
First, let's be clear: I'm not the author of this. It's just that I heard it today ... while heading home on the only Madison Metro bus route that has an official name ... Yes, I was aboard
The Sherman Flyer ... with limited stops.
And this wasn't just a soloist craving attention. It was ... for lack of a better word ... a choir, of passengers ... a group of Flyer regulars who had rallied around this Wild Idea, that the Friday homeward bound trip called for a sing-a-long, a rolling serenade down East Washington Ave, and all the way up to the far reaches of the North Side.
Today, as I discovered, they'd even gone so far to prepare alternative, bus-themed lyrics to recognizable tunes. It became apparent, as copies were passed around, that they intended to use them.
And I suddenly found myself sitting right smack-dab in the middle of this mayhem.
With two singers to right of me, another to my left and two across the aisle, it began. First up was a modern Metro version of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" ... something like "
Roll on, Steel Chariot."
And then, as my stop approached, the choir -- in direct defiance of the bus rider protocol that calls for ignoring the existence of all other human beings -- commenced a version of the Beatles' classic "A Little Help from My Friends."
The tune followed me, until that fateful moment when the doors closed. For a moment, I watched in silence as the Sherman Flyer rolled onward, pondering that question:
What would you do if I sang on the bus?
# # #
"Howyadoin'? .... Howyadoin'? ... Howyadoin'?"
The driver boomed as each passenger stepped onto the bus, repeating the greeting as if it were a single word. "Howyadoin'?"
# # #
Her train of thought operated on a track that ran directly to her mouth, without engaging any switch or filter. From the moment she stepped on the bus, her train clattered and clanked at full steam.
"I'm so tired ... I'm running late ... don't want to be late. Oh boy ...."
The
Bus She Really Wanted was somewhere up ahead.
Her volume control seemed stuck on high, so no one on this Metro journey was spared. Consequently, she endeared herself to none of her fellow passengers. But she clearly irritated the driver, whom she badgered to catch up to
The Bus She Really Wanted, visible a block ahead.
Exasperated, the driver eventually implored her to disembark, but she steadfastly refused. A few times, she stepped out the door, but then hopped back on. She was running late, and called someone to complain that the driver was being rude and uncooperative.
Finally, another passenger convinced her that she might be able to catch
The Bus She Really Wanted if she exited and made a harried dash. There was no chance that she could succeed, but she still bolted off.
A collective sigh of relief wafted through the bus. Then, all passengers resumed the traditional bus-rider practice of quietly ignoring one another.
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