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Myself: Destination
I sat at the front of the 49-passenger-bus
We were going down the highway
Passing all the lights and the travelers
It was dark out, a midnight blue casted shadows around
The rain on the windshield bounced on and off

I looked down the aisle
And what did I see
I saw myself
About half-way back down the aisle of grey seats
There I sat staring to the front at myself
And I stared at myself, looking, gazed like a ghostly soul

In the center of the aisle
There was a box
A cardboard box with printed black ink
It stunk of fish and meat and octopussy
It leaked down the thin aisle to my black covered feet

I got freaked out
Could not understand
How could there be two of me
Right then and there
How could this be

I leaped out of my red-striped, semi-comfortable, grey seat
And jumped through the front windshield of the autobus
Crashing through, landing hard on the wet cold ground
Shards of sharp glass punctured my soft pale skin
And blood splattered my structured self and the other innocent passengers
The driver swirved
But it was too late
Before I hit the ground
The bus slammed at my fleshy blurred form
Crushing my hair and eyes into my thoughts
My crucified red liquid flowing
Across bright headlights and creamy-white dashes on the pavement

But now there is one of me
And he
Smells like meat
And is still going to his destination

 1998 David Greg Harth