45: Buses

A woman sat down

on the bus,

where she wanted, did not move.

Now from the window, a bus, the colors of honeybees,

extends its red arm and

the world stops moving for the release

of my being.

My small black child crosses the street.

The future

is best dressed in the reflection of equality.

See

the sway

of a

little black dress. Matches everything.

In that capsule the cream of the world, pollen

of the universe, grace of potential, mingles. Every color

knocks at the door of her home, and

the most ready Queen

is a buzzing delight

to hear,

the flight of spirit.

Welcome