Sometimes on the bus

Pt 1. /Sometimes

I cry on the bus when the perfect song comes on.

It’s quiet,

soft-like-me. Meets me where/who I am.

Sneaks up when least suspected.

Crammed salty fishes. All mixed together.

I pay my fare. Take me where I have always been.

Pt. 2/Before

that I saw a homeless man at a bus stop. Both of us were sitting. I, from inside the glass house on wheels. He was ripping up mail, not his, and throwing it in the air, not giving a shit who was walking by. His eyes were blinding. When he ran out of parchment, he took a key and started tapping. Scanning the crowd. Scraping the metal that held. He was impossible to miss and we couldn’t look at him.