By Shem Onderi
It is dirty,
Collecting filth of every kind.
See how waste clings to metal, carried miles
Before it lets go.
Mud cakes beneath the bus—some for months.
Sometimes, the underside gathers a decomposing carcass,
Dragging it for miles, through town,
Into the bus park, trailing fragments,
Scattering pieces into the yard,
Oozing an unpleasant odor.
Some of the rot becomes part of the bus.
Under the bus is where metals meet
And grind to keep the machine in motion,
Each with a different function,
Yet somehow complementing the other.
The underside is exposed to the surface,
At times scraping against it, harsh and rough,
At times breaking under the strain.
That contact is never desirable.
The under is rarely checked.
Metal parts wear, rust, and rot as the bus moves.
It bears the full weight of the bus—
Sometimes too much,
Sometimes overwhelmed.
In worn and tattered bodies of buses,
Passengers glimpse the ground as they ride.
Dust rises through, water seeps in,
Oil drips below, bolts loosen and fall.
And when the bus finally breaks down,
The mechanic looks underneath—
At the vulnerable part.
Up here is boarding, but the truth lies below.
Should the bus roll and the under face up,
What is hidden would be too unpleasant to see.
Under the bus.