The Commute, by Roland Tye

I used to take the bus. All those cold, weary faces. In the Land of Smiles I ride a dusty Honda Click. It hasn't rained in weeks. The way I weave in and out of the traffic would be illegal back home. Here the pickups and SUVs pay me no heed. They are elephants; I am a flea. A red oblong taxi full of Chinese tourists drifts towards me. I feel a flash of fear. Like when a diver sees a shark. I slow and it passes, belching black smoke into my smarting eyes. Its going to be hot again.