Excerpt from Burritos on the Bus- (rough draft)

On the bus,
We are all the proletariat
wedged into hard blue green seats
or standing, knees bent in bus surfing stance,
braced and hands clinging to the metal bar
all of us packed in
like fig newtons in a carton,
moving in time with the rhythmic jostling,
the stop and go,
pulling and pushing us
with the equity of gravity

We are the die-hard dailys,
always staring, but never making eye contact,
snorting impatiently when someone fumbles
for exact change,
sighing at the inevitabilty
of being 15 minutes late to work
again.

We are the mothers
who can snap a stroller closed
and flash a bus pass one handed
faster than most people can find their keys.
We are the students,
turtled with backpacks,
the elderly in wheel chairs
or with canes and walkers
and carts full of cans and bags to be recycled,
the business men too cheap to pay for downtown parking
in dark suits, trying not to wrinkle.
We are neighbors who never speak,
the mentally ill, the transient,
the future DJ blaring hip hop at deafening decibels
from oversized headphones.
and your mama.

Your Mama is so fat,
she takes up two seats,
so you sit kitty corner by the old folks,
pretending you're on your own,
but your mama doesn't like that game.
She snatches your little hand,
squishes herself against the window
revealing a narrow sliver of cushion.
You mount the emptiness,
chubby thighs pressed against
adult sized chubby thighs
and the air is filled with
the scent of burritos

The crazy lady is looking at you,
looking through you,
with her crazy lady voodoo,
her greasy white hair is turbaned in Safeway bags
and you know she reeks of dirty body,
the damp musk of stale piss and alcohol saturated pores,
but all you smell is taco bell
emanating from the white bag on your mothers lap
like a beacon of comfort,
a heavenly cheesy flower
intoxicating in its fragrant overload.

You hate the bus, the long meandering,
and frequent stops seem interminably long,
longer still when accompanied by your mother.

Why couldn't it be your father,
the sane parent,
quiet and slender enough to allow you
your own full seat?

A business man shifts uncomfortably
trapped between the crazy lady
and trying to keep his eyes
off your mama's tremendous thighs
escaping the dignity of her purple dress.
You cling to the edge of the fabric
as much to brace yourself for a turn,
as to pull it down, but she brushes you off

"Baby don't pull on mama's dress like that.
It's all right like it is.
You just don't want your mama to be sexy."
And it's true,
not on the bus with 50 pairs of non-staring, staring eyes
soaking in your every move.
Your mama is a billboard of embarrassment
an ever evolving scene of
wardrobe malfunctions
and loud talking.

She hums a little.
You know that hum.
She always hums when she's hungry
to cover up the roar of her stomach.
Directly above you