Liquor-Ash-Lovers the bus drones on through the darkness, through snow that can't be seen, through storm that isn't affirmed. streetlights, leftover christmas bulbs, shadows of trees coruscate by through the dirt-caked windows. the musky scent of liquor combined with cheap, gaudy perfume and cigarette smoke wash into my nostrils, cleansing not. my stomach turns. a femininie voice from the posterior bus: you don't listen with your heart; you listen with your ears. another voice sits in silence, looking but looking like it's not. the bus drones on: darkness, lifhts, vapid air. you always just put up your defenses. so do you. we never communicate. enticed souls crook ears, except for the woman with the cigarette perfume, except for her drunken mate. you might study the Bible more than i, but i live those teachings— a lot more than you. righteousness is found in a self-bellowed ego. jolt, the bus jostles, jars to a stop. it's midnight, the changing hour, the hour of a new day anew. liquor ash lovers reiterate and consumate. the chill of the night, tonight's end, is tomorrow's beginning.