She sits on the first row
Of the bus again –
Right behind the driver
And right in front of the only
Mirror in the house.
Throughout the ride
She fiddles with her
Dumb pink purse,
Fingers her super
Vibrant lipstick and
Twists her neck about to
Check herself out.
Not soulful, wholesome
Glances, but ones she wishes
Guys gave her all the time;
It looks as if she’s flirting with
Her own image.
As more people pour
In the bus, another girl
Forces her to give up
Her throne of vanity.
She scoots over
And is stuck behind
The unreflecting behind of
The fat bus driver for
The rest of the ride.
And I breathe a sigh of relief
As I ponder the beautiful
Contents of the empty mirror
Comfortably, judgmentally
From seat number seven.
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