Your postage sized face in the red bus
lumbering around our corner at Sheridan & Main
comforts a slow-moving pedestrian, or quiet
homebody clipping vines. You are steady at the wheel,
staring straight ahead, we could climb on if we wanted to,
be carried safely to another part of town, another life.
Only rarely you raise your hand to say Hi.
Maybe it’s against the rules. I always raise mine though,
as I still do to trains, like a child, and sometimes
you toot, and there’s a moment of connection,
and I still smile. Where do you live,
are you sick of your route?
We were young and happier once, we rode
the bus all the time, south on Blanco Road,
or all the way to Wisconsin,
awakening achy, staring out the windows at a
blurred field, while you, mysterious beautiful you,
remained miraculously alert,
sure of destinations, eyes pinned to pavement
and the coming day.