I’m thinking about buses.
Here, they shake with color
And fill with music.
It doesn’t come from the stereo,
But up from the ripped leather seats,
Whose broken metal frames like to sharpen their teeth on pant legs.
But never mind those ravenous monsters.
It comes from the cracked leather and chipped walls,
Bubbling past our ears and flowing through the windows,
Mingling with the clouds of exhaust we leave behind.
I think maybe that’s what these people are made of,
That music and color that spills out of their buses,
Appears in a mango-colored window,
In so many woven art works
And skillfully mixed bowls of guacamole.
I enjoy the buses here -
These traveling fiestas on wheels.