Happy dog

by Maria Claudia Faverio

It was hot on the bus
in mid-December,
and the bus was crowded with people
wedged into immobility,
heads buzzing with thoughts
of hurried love, pre-wrapped parcels
with cloned angels and Santa Clauses
on glossy paper.

Banned from the unalloyed
happiness of the masses
unable to identify meanings
behind the ohs and ahs,
I looked out of the airtight window
and suddenly saw a dog in a car,
his snout leisurely laid on the frame
of the wound-down window,
eyes shut, ears and hair
waving in the streaming air.

I turned around almost instantly,
somewhat disturbed by that image
of unattainable freedom.
And there they were again,
the sweating faces,
high-flown elbows, buffeting feet
and blank eyes unwillingly
mirroring
the unstoppable summer
sun outside.

“Excuse me,” I stuttered.
The person next to me swerved
on the faded seat
to let me through,
and I ran out
into the grotesque freedom
of the garish street.