Oh lonesome bus at daybreak—
buglike profile suggesting six legs,
three antennae stretching toward the quarter moon—
your body’s own rivets will soon cast shadows,
the crust of sand will glimmer inside your crumpled tailpipes.
How did you come to be parked by Dillon Road?
Were you self-propelled or dragged along like an old fool?
You are whole. Your emblems and stripes have grandeur.
How many drove you over the decades?
How many passengers did you carry and what were their joys and woes?
Was Low Desert the last destination you displayed?
With clouded headlamps and rusted bezels you welcome the dawn.
The name Salazar in sticky letters on your door
has peeled away to alaz as if in mock-lament,
and on your engine cover someone has scratched roto,
which means broken and who couldn’t have guessed?
But someone still cares, oh bus. There’s a new lock
on your door, and the rock before your tire
prevents any creeping away.
Thank you for greeting the day with me
and for not having dwellers
when I stepped on the bumper and peered in.