A lady with nearly fancy hair

and faux fur

sits in front of me

on the bus

as I wonder

if there’s been

a new marketing campaign

or expressway closure.

But the same squeaks and shakes

pervade every bump,

the same hoochies in white pants

and pilly jogging suit people

also persist, so I suppose

it’s a UWM or Marquette

phenomenon on the Gold,

formerly the 10.

All of us on the same ark,

no gold in our pockets.

Just passes and loose change,

and the hope,

as always on the bus,

that a serial killer

doesn’t sit