Bus Depot

by G.T.

Discarded tickets littering the lobby’s surface, lacquered below urine and soda, litanize a day’s worth of departures, cast unto the ground like lottery tickets devoid of escape or even a lousy refund. Blessed be the soul who takes to his hands and knees to scrape off the remnants of they who hold tight a sliver of hopefulness against the innumerable odds they accepted. They who paid for a chance. They who wished for streets where snow did not settle only to inhibit their feet. He scours the floor with his bare hands, hoping to discover an unused transfer towards paradise.