The bus smelled of urine that morning
The odor hanging on hard from some
Unwashed vagrant whose days and
Nights were spent in a whiskey bottle
The bus riders tried to ignore it
Absorbed in their text messaging
Or books or music or staring blank
Into the fetid air
But on occasion you could note
The slight grimace cross a brow
The scrunching of noses
The down-turned lips
And even then someone would
Wonder how they were the
Unwashed. They were the
Vagrants going from here to
There
Sent from my iPad
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