What the AC Transit Bus Driver Knows

carry things in our arms or back-packed in a canvas lump, lunches we will eat later at work, newspapers, CDs, a thermos, survival packs swung over a shoulder

as we climb the stairs to our favorite seat

hoping it’s empty, the one nearest the door,

in the back, or on the Bay side of the bus

where water, swirling in its own blues,

soothes our two-cupped caffeined minds;

The driver knows we are all headed somewhere,

different corners of the world, to be sure, but corners, nonetheless,

there is a grid, somewhere there’s a place for us,

or maybe not, which is its own place,

dunking our passes in the firebox,

then inserting them back inside their jackets until next time; we do have that much in common as we begin the ride

in earnest, some unfolding a cell phone, dialing

to reestablish contact with the home office.

The driver knows the headway between our entrances

and exits, how we’ve bagged a bargain

tucked in a package beneath the seat,

three of something for $1.00, even better,

dinner in a Styrofoam for two;

behind a wheel, a driver watches how each day

issues forth volunteers from a sidewalk,

and out come pouring forth stories

giving shape to our madness, which he hears.

Husbands, boyfriends, grandmothers,

uncles, sisters, brothers, wives,

none are strangers, not even the homeless guy who gets on

at 53rd and says he belongs to no one,

spends the next 20 minutes talking to voices

inside his headphones;

the driver knows the man belongs to the bus, a traveler camouflaged by other travelers, even

when he yanks the bell to get off.