a bus ride home

Get on the 10 and you might see me
Sitting in the rear of the bus,
Alone or with a friend.
Matters? Nope.
Not to the naked eye, the person who just wants to get home.

I'm just a kid right?
Just some person seeing his way through the crowded, generic life of the bus.
Long day, maybe you got laid off at work,
Maybe you got dumped.
A promotion? A smile? Eye-contact? Nope.

Hands against my cold, stubble-covered cheeks;
Friend? Foe? Black, white, Mexican, thug, creeper, some random quiet guy.
Welcome to the bus.
Rich? No, usually poor.
Maybe a smile is out of place? Looking into the eyes of another is forbidden?
Shut your conscious the fuck up and look around!
Maybe you should sit away from the world, in your own bus corner.

Pain sees its way through the eyes of the world,
Each mother, father, brother, sister, daughter, son.
You sit alone on a bus, you mean nothing?
“Having a bad day?”
“You betcha..”
-awkward silence-

“well I’m homeless, fresh home from iraq, single and shit outta luck.”
Fuck, its not my problem, but I can always help.

We met on a cold cement bench, alone in the cold wind.
Darkness found its way into my lungs, freezing me solid.
No names just yet; talking for now.
“the name’s Jordan.”
An extention of the hand, eyes towards his.

“Steve” a shake of hands and a conversation that changed me.
Do you see a problem? What do you see?
The sweat and slight shake of the hands and shallow breath? Nope.
A smile, slight and thin, but there.
A widows peak atop a crown of black hair.
Aged? Twenties or thirties.

I ask for a story and I get one.
Do we want stories when we ask how someones day was, or do we just ask to seem friendly?
“tell me about it.” A smile, and a flutter in my chest.
“well my ex wife has all my money, and my cards and the shelter near by is a bitch to enter”
A frown, but the urge to hug him remains. The poor bastard.
I feel their pain as they tell me of their hardship.

Am I alone? Sympathy has died?
No, just become scarce, an endangered flower among the harsh tundra of life.
Cold hands, not felt. The immediate avoidance of eyes, gone.
Welling of warmth, strength. A lone wolf finds his pack, nestled among the icy cave crevices

“well have you tried..?”
“yup, not till Tuesday.”
“damn..well I have some soda or sumthin here…”
‘Really? Thanks bro!”

I sit alone, in the cold parking lot, his words pacing my mind, a father waiting up for his son.
It’s the sound of a word, how its said. How it feels. And how does it ring, churchbells..
Miles away at a bus stop my mind remains.