Constellate
After Work
Rose Henbest
The bus driver was named Bob and said
“hurry” before “hi” as I trampled through salted snow
and other people’s footprints in a red balloon jacket.
I offered what was left of my smile.
The bus driver was named Bob and said
nothing to the lady who coughed like a fox – quiet,
quiet, then a bark that wakes you up to check
if everything is where you left it. I covered my mouth.
The bus driver was named Bob and said
“b’bye” when I said “bye” and disembarked,
walked home under a tangerine sky. Indifferently
he went on break, dripped mayo on his shirt.
The bus driver was named Bob and said
“yes” into his radio, ended his break. Resumed helping
people get home after work. Liked his job but
begrudged missing Jeopardy, hearing his wife’s guesses.
