Verse 5
Uri’s bus entered Boston on a taught St. Patrick’s Day morn with air that felt stretched over his face. The barely slumbering Bostonians had not yet emerged for their revelry. Uri smiled. The great surge of expectancy spurted in his stomach while his frazzled mustache grumbled for sleep. An odor of unexpected human origin wafted from the scratched metal lining of the bus, a kind of cleansing sage sanctifying each traveler that made this journey from the humming nights of New York to the granite mornings of Boston. Then there were those bound for the more southern-American climes, where the latitude stretched with the bellies of the people. Uri would never see the equator before he died his fantastic death, but he would always imagine it.
As the bus shifted into a higher gear he s
