Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...

erbacce-press

Teodora Totorean

taking the bus

it is the same bus
Torquay number 52A more red than blue
on its left side where the most recent film’s advert
tries to find its audience among passengers;
the same driver who tried my mom’s cookies
when I came back from Romania last year
and said “they are so different yet familiar”
as if he announced the axiom of how I feel every day

it is the same bus I step in always the last
abandoning my past on the pavement behind
like the transparent skin of a snake
all that matters is here and now
and my eyes looking through the window;
the passing trees contain warm blood in their wood
and I’m finding myself lying on a trunk
dreaming, feeling, breathing, being,
hanging from my childhood branch
careless and free;

it is the same bus
where to stop myself from falling
I’m avidly latching on to a handle
like onto a false memory of happiness
 

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