The school bus chugging away
Leaves a cloud of exhaust
And a back window of kids
Sticking out tongues, or,
For braver ones, skinny butts
Pressed against cold glass.

He watches from the corner
Smoking a Camel, hacking blood
Into a handkerchief, killing time
Before his shift at the airport starts
And the diesel smell sticks
To his clothes once again.

And in between loading luggage
Onto the plane he stares
Up into waiting areas where people
Read magazines or check phones
Or any of the other things
People do to pretend the time

Between here and there doesn’t matter.





John Abbott is a writer, musician, and English instructor who lives with his wife and daughter in Kalamazoo, Michigan. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Potomac Review, Georgetown Review, Portland Review, Redivider, Bitter Oleander, and many others. His poetry chapbook Near Harmony is available from Flutter Press, and his story collection is available from Underground Voices. 











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