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


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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