Roughshod 

The roads that lead to school never had been smooth. The asphalt was crumbling and had signs of extended abuse by the frequent and torturous anger of the cars and more importantly, their drivers. Thier cucumber-like white knuckled flesh strangling the valleys between the peaks of a grooved stearing wheel. A red faced complexion with a terse steely gaze, locked on target without distraction from the bounding and pitching from the ride.

Inside, the dank staleness of a hot bath left unplugged with poor ventilation hangs throughout. The once dark green seats now fading to the hue of slightly rotting avocados by too many hours in the sun. Rough angled Pen marks and pencil holes have scared its skin and reminded the bus of its infinite place. With grinding gears of doubt it shutters along. Out of balance wheels try making up for the potholes by anticipating the trajectory which it will be flung. Only knowing that the cargo it carries is precious…to someone. Still it battles on.

With honking motorists scattered in all directions like out of whack satellites in a confusing orbit the buses windows now raising to block out the raucous barrage of unpleasantries that ricochet of its dented shell. A rising pressure pumping like a derrick worsening with the each new jolt from the dereliction of the pavement. 

Just a few blocks more, then no more, for today. The Bus bears down to a steadying pace, troubled still but certainty that the end is more than a hope. A few last jabs wrench its shocks awake, until the worn and battle test brakes bring it to a stop. 
They filter out of the overheating heap, a fractured spirit and hard tarnished soul is what it has to show for the effort, and scars that will fade in the unforgiving sun, but never will they vanish completely.

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