by Channie Greenberg
The fellow, with legs splay across that spot, grumbles as I nudge my way toward the window. Behind him, a woman whose scarf reaches around her chin, over all of her hair, and up to her eyes, squints at me.
Her narrowed gaze provokes not half as much does her bundle, which neither mewing nor leaking dust, shakes, nonetheless. First chance, I disembark.
Channie Greenberg is a writer and a teacher of writing. Her work has appeared in places ranging from The American Journal of Semiotics to Calligraphy Magazine. In the future, her articulated irreverence will be published by Fallopian Falafel Zine and by The Mother Magazine.
When not fooling around with words, Channie paints, builds ceramics, and supplies small spatulas to imaginary hedgehogs. She also dreams about the day when her children will correctly sort the laundry.