This opinion by Derek Mong is published by MSN. Here is an excerpt:
How many of us grow rapturous in the presence of a bus? The number, I’d guess, is relatively small. Hulking metal loaves of the urban landscape, buses do not, when rattling past, draw voices down to a reverential hush.
This collective disdain, born of class warfare and the American obsession with cars, does buses a disservice. They’re democratic institutions, sightseeing stalwarts, and a delivery system for poetry — both found and made. To ride one among neighbors, the stamp of your municipality affixed to its hide, is to bind the communal and the commuter. Of course, buses break down. Of course, they’re late. The gap between their purpose and their product, their design and their delivery, tells the story, in miniature, of the US’s efforts to fulfill its obligations to us all.
What do I love about buses? Repetition comes to mind. Eavesdropping too. I love watching the glass shelters of bus stops sail by like diving bells. I love knowing, by the sound of a speed bump or the scrape of a pendulous branch, how near I am to home. This reminds me of verse, which — formal or free — thrives on patterns. And it reminds me of the poetry of my fellow passengers: “Nope, you’re good,” a woman reassures a man. “We could eat off your face.” (Was his beard mangy?) Later, a few seats over, a daughter shares a cookie with her dad: “Daddy, don’t eat the crumbs!” (He stops.)
Read the full article here.