The driver knows we all get on at different stops 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
Published: May, 2003
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.
