Ode to the 148

Somedays...
I wonder if you even exist.
Standing in the cold
the wind cutting through me
my anger swells like a new bruise.

Your cousin the 135 waddles up and
goes....
empty.

And then you arrive.

Packed to the gills.
An old-fart single-loader
hot mess
of a bus.

I hate you, until
you pull up empty
at the end of the day
just as I crest the stairs on Michigan,
tired and cranky.

Some days I hate my job
and my life
but I still love you...
little Clarendon express bus.