Leaving South Bend on the bus, going
down Lincoln Way West, past the living and
the dead houses,
houses of broken windows,
houses of chain-link fenced yards filled with kids and bikes and basketballs,
houses of wooden x’s
nailed awkwardly over windows,
the city half abandoned, half frenetic.

The bus is full of cell phones, motion and chatter,
I’m on the bus
I’m actually on the bus
celebrating the state of being-on-the-bus
the liminal state
crossing from the activity site to the airport,
that larger threshold.
(Why do airports make me think of dying?
And make me see the next world a place of paperwork, ID,
examination for contraband.
what have you got hidden? What?
Where is it? Pull off that cloud,
show me.)

We’re finally, finally on the bus.
We’re just leaving South Bend now.
There doesn’t seem to be much traffic and
we should get there right on time.