I board the Q59 smiling, and greet the bus driver with a hello, ignoring the sign that says to leave him alone while the wheels are in motion. His eyes betray his composed posture. Meeting mine, he explains, You are the first person to talk to me today.
An eight hour shift:
forty-four mute passengers
on a crowded bus.
His sigh says, City people only exist within the limits of their seats, they don’t see other people seeing nothing beyond their knees and their needs. I dip my metrocard and my eyes, paying for the lack of shame of the high-schoolers, the old women with canes, even the Local 3 union worker I sit next to.
Dusty, stained work-boots,
frayed jeans and a canvas coat
dress his haggard stare.
But soon I, too, lose the crowd in the maze of a poet’s building up to a punchline. When it comes, we are reunited in the common purpose of laughter floating high above the low buzz of headphone music and turning pages, my neighbor apparently reading along with me all the while.
Our dry city lives
can reignite with friction —
we are not alone.
