Due to my fear of flying, I have done a ton of traveling via Greyhound, including multiple trips across country. If you’ve even done a cross-country trip on a Greyhound even once, you will be able to relate to this prose poem.
Greyhound Stench
The ceasing of the rhythmic squeaking and rattling pulls me out of my daze. I am next to the bathroom, a glorified port-a-potty, that sends out a putrid smell of deodorization every time the door opens. The recycled air penetrates my nostrils, leaving them arid and bleeding. I shiver from artificial cold. The moonless night looms outside the tinted windows. The snoring passengers baffle me, how can anyone sleep soundly in this stagnant box? The Golden Arches are visible outside, my stomach already feels lead-lined. “Thirty minutes!” the driver yells. The door opens to a nameless town with a draught of hot, unfriendly air. The smell of piss and beer waft in with no breeze. The assault of the atmosphere wakes everyone up. Slug-like they step off the bus, surrounded by nothing.
Chestnut Cowboy 