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What We Know after "The Bus" by Frida Kahlo, 1929 by Michael G. Smith Maybe she is mestizo, this barefoot woman to my right. I feel her eyes looking down at my bag of monedas de plata. Isn't it impolite to stare at a man on a wooden bus? Even if one thinks he is a gringo capitalista? But then, would I not have un coche privado y conductor? Pero no, maybe I am un médico on my way to the orphanage. Or thief who robbed a bank moments before taking this seat. We don't know, do we? I have assumed too much only to be surprised by too many things in mi corta vida. Un hermosa día de otoño, we know nada about now or el futuro. Snow is unknown here. A streetcar might ram us, la doncella to my left thrown out of the bus, el camino de todas nuestras vidas altered forever.
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