For a minute we’re all part of the same thing. The sun flickers and rests on the sides of our faces as we pass trees, highway signs, 18-wheelers, tractors. It’s all quiet. 50-some years after Rosa Parks and no one makes a fuss, black-white-purple-green we all sit in comfortable silence. Floor vibrating under the settled rubber of our shoes, seats bouncing us like a lullaby. The world passes us by outside, beige fields of weeds, leafless winter branches, working class, upper class, middle class, nowhere class, but on the bus we don’t stop for trivialities, we don’t patiently wait for our respective exits, on the bus we trust the same driver. On the bus we amble together along the same road.