Ride the Last Shared Van Out

adrien olichon

Before dark falls,

take the last shared van.

Inside, the seats are packed

with shopping bags, tired expressions,

someone’s sleeping child,

a box sealed tight with brown tape.

The driver doesn’t explain the route.

He just drives off.

The town falls away in sections—

a pharmacy light,

a repair shop,

a dog sniffing at a shoulder.

The air inside is warm,

thick with fabric and dust.

By the last bend,

you are no longer traveling elegantly.

You are simply being carried,

along with everyone else,

toward the end of the line.

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