Myself: Destination

I sat at the front of the 49-passenger-bus

We were going down the highway

Passing all the lights and the travelers

It was dark out, a midnight blue - casted shadows around

The rain on the windshield bounced on and off

I looked down the aisle

And what did I see

I saw myself

About half-way back down the aisle of grey seats

There I sat staring to the front at myself

And I stared at myself, looking, gazed like a ghostly soul

In the center of the aisle

There was a box

A cardboard box with printed black ink

It stunk of fish and meat and octo-pussy

It leaked down the thin aisle to my black covered feet

I got freaked out

Could not understand

How could there be two of me

Right then and there

How could this be

Terrified

I leaped out of my red-striped, semi-comfortable, grey seat

And jumped through the front windshield of the autobus

Crashing through, landing hard on the wet cold ground

Shards of sharp glass punctured my soft pale skin

And blood splattered my structured self and the other innocent passengers

The driver swerved

But it was too late

Before I hit the ground

The bus slammed at my fleshy blurred form

Crushing my hair and eyes into my thoughts

My crucified red liquid flowing

Across bright headlights and creamy-white dashes on the pavement

But now there is one of me

And he

Smells like meat

And is still going to his destination

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.01.22.00:00:00@07430/10036

98.01.24.00:00:00@07430/10036

98.01.25.00:00:00@07430/10036