THE ARTICULATED BUS

I ride on the amusing part of the bus.
It's 3pm. I have not showered. Shell hair, cellophane face,
crinkly with old hairspray like grandma's rain bonnet
in the midday drizzle.

Why am I here, now, and what right
do I have to chuckle while the floor twists like a jam-lid
and the walls accordion merrily
as we sail on up to Second Avenue?