Ruins

I trace the curve of my rib, its bony bulge clothed with smooth cotton in softened conflict with the tip of my index finger. I stare ahead, en route, simultaneously entwined with strangers. The road’s title rechristened; its origin, my memory cannot place. Neon blue bolts splinter gray licks of sky above; the peripheral pallor brings passengers a collective wince whilst clamoring booms vibrate our tinfoil surroundings. The buildings that line these perimeters are monstrous, leaning, corralling heaps of metal, plastic and man alike. At any moment we may be inhaling their ruined construction.

The bus tilt with each ping of pock-marked street, launching passengers in a boneless quibble. The pair of agitated men adjacent to my seat appear mirror images, their charred hide house indecipherable ink puddles between folds along their limbs.

Upon exiting the bus, I scan the slate-faced crowd and habitually rub the lining of my ribcage.