Commute

The smell of dirt, plastic, and something a little off
Maybe crusted alcohol, maybe vomit or old gum
Peeling off the ground like a cancer
Stuffy, musty radiators throwing dry air into the damp, rainy
afternoon
Exhaust clouding the outside of the windows,
Greasy smears covering the inside
From weary heads resting on
The bus.

Friends

Young, they are
Young boy in paint stained pants, with beaten lunch box
Steel-toed, scuffed boots pale in the summer sun
With brownish white tank top, against brownish white skin,
On the bus coming home after twelve hours, he says
Why don't you ever call me, he says,
Where do you work, he says
Have you been keeping busy?
Elusive, with an aloof glint in her brown eyes,
Swinging shining brown hair over brown shoulders,
She evades his questions,
Young, straight out of high school
Feel free to call me, he says
She, non-committal, promises to
And both of them know, that she won't
Ever
Pick up the phone and dial his number,
And when she sees him at the bus stop,
Two months down the road,
She will turn to her friend,
And laugh, mockingly
Avoiding his eyes.

Hillary Miller is currently an undergraduate Political Science student at Simon Fraser University. She has written as long as she can remember, and hopes one day to be a professional writer.

Email: Hillary Miller

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