I knew the collection of people pretty well in LA, the urban migrant workers, reliance on the double wide motion machine for their economic survival. I was going beach to beach, or sight seeing Metro-style, occasionally going to a rare job interview, my fellow passengers had no other choice.

Speaking on the bus seemed not an option, for any word you spoke lead to a conversation you would dread for the rest of the day: Faces of sorrow and frustration. When Buddha stated that “all life is sorrowful,” I think he imagined ridding on the Metro in his infinite mind.

with a few choice line breaks, this would make a spectacular poem, more spectacular than it already is.