Last Tour of the Season

Aleppo Bus

Half aware, my walk is abruptly interrupted by mechanical groans, an old orange bus with its great white eyes on my clothes that speak another language, the Moroccan scarf fooling no one. An arm reaches through cool night air, waves its words that say ‘board me’ and I do, with a piece of paper to explain what English won’t, a route beyond where buses go. The sheet, tattered as vulnerability, begs protection that this working man offers: insistent as honor he drives past familiar gates, brakes down hills through bunched taxis and vans frenetically honking for fares. High on the worn leather I sit as a medieval woman travelling by camel, swaying in her litter unseen, hidden by height and night dark as expectation, until brought safely home, watched even into the noise and crowds escaped.