no. 97 
a milk run they call it 
from the east side of the city 
to the west side of the city - then back 
through a winding route 
of bus stop after bus stop 
a service to the citizens 
subsidized by the citizens 
administered by bureaucrats 
each bus driven 
by well trained  
obedient drivers 
... 
I have my bus tickets 
I grab my fifty four inch long 
by four inches in diameter 
role of artists canvas 
I grab my bright 
red orange bag filled with artists paint 
step up into the waiting bus 
juggle my bus tickets 
into the open metal mouth 
of the bus ticket depository 
made eye contact with the bus driver 
so he would know I paid 
struggled a few feet to the front 
side bench 
sit down 
... 
I was tired 
my back was aching 
not as young as I used to be 
just retired 
retired two years early 
wanted to paint 
write poetry 
write short stories 
... 
I looked up 
to see one 
of the bus company's 
many posters about being 
polite and considerate passengers 
that's nice 
finally getting rid 
of the idea that bus riders 
are thieves 
and second class citizens 
... 
I need a transfer 
to take the 162 north 
It's too much to get up 
I'll get a transfer when I get off 
... 
we drive on to the next bus stop 
bus stops - doors open 
passengers get on 
driver calls a few passengers 
back to the front 
asks to see their pass 
they nervously hand it over 
carefully inspects their pass 
approves 
they return to their seat  
we drive on to the next bus stop 
... 
bus stops - doors open 
passengers get on 
driver calls a few passengers 
back to the front 
asks to see their pass 
they nervously hand it over 
carefully inspects their pass 
approves 
they return to their seat  
we drive on to the next bus stop 
... 
I had traveled on city buses 
and streetcars 
for over fifty years 
I had never seen so much 
bus pass checking 
... 
he was checking 
mostly people of colour 
visible minorities 
some were old confused 
some had language problems 
some sensed the petty 
racist intrusion into their lives 
their eyes revealed 
flashing momentary anger 
he had not found 
one bad bus pass 
... 
sitting beside me 
a young woman I knew 
quietly whispered into my ear 
he makes me feel ashamed 
to be Canadian 
"I can't do anything about it" 
... 
I turned to her 
"he enjoys it" 
she turned to me 
"I know he enjoys it" 
"that's the problem" 
... 
I have arrived at the last stop 
I gather up my 
fifty four inch long 
by four inches in diameter 
artists canvas 
I grab my bright 
red orange bag filled with artists paint 
stand up 
and as an overweight 
white haired older man 
I ask the driver for a transfer 
so I can take the 160 north 
"I never saw you get on the bus" 
"I don't know if you have paid" 
"You should get a transfer when you get on" 
"I am not giving you a transfer" 
... 
I looked at him in disbelief 
I silently looked into him 
I searched every corner of his soul 
he sensed that I knew he was lying 
I silently left the bus 
... 
luckily 
I had more bus tickets 
the young woman 
who had sat beside me 
could not believe 
the stupidity she had witnessed 
... 
the bus company 
does not trust it's drivers 
does not trust it's passengers 
so the administration 
and only the administration 
can be trusted  
reflecting their mistrust of everyone else 
they make rules that empower 
those the bus Nazis 
who love to hate 

... 
but they do spend thousands 
of dollars on 
"passengers be nice" posters 
...  
 

keith o'connor 
ottawa ontario canada 
2001 10  21 
www.tinmangallery.com