They are really school buses
brightly colored boxes with wheels
Dodges, Chevrolets, Mercedes transformed
by blocks and swirls of
cool aqua, forest green, deep yellow, fiery orange, faded red.
One is a 40-foot monoxide-wielding dragon;
another is some other fierce creature
flying across asphalt road.
All swerve like the tiny tuk-tuks
despite their bulk.
Inside, their cargo.
Some eyes have fallen shut with fatigue,
others brightly look ahead, towards a not-yet-destination,
many simply stare, speechless.
Behind these few faces
a backdrop of countless profiles.
One could be swathed in vibrant purples,
threads hand-woven by a child who sits on her stool,
half-crouched, half perched,
facing the loom
weaving still at the market.
Another may wear what used to be white,
a shirt labeled with a name I can neither see nor read
sitting beneath his straw hat.
bracing against the sudden turns,
holding their wares,
so much more than these mere outlines.