bus people

i like bus people
poor people
like me
i like to listen
to fathers with babies
children with mothers
shift workers
regulars
drifters.

i listen
to their stories
of prison time and
chronic illness and
eviction and
homelessness,
to the jokes and laughter
to the young and the very young
to the old and the old spirits
to the lost middle-aged
like me
with a new job
with homework on their knees
reinventing themselves.

i like how we wait
with patience and grace
for mobility devices
making room, moving back
i like how we shout Wait!
Wait! someone is running
to catch the bus
for a shift or
a class or
a court date or
maybe they're just
running from where they are
and it doesn't matter where
they go.

it doesn't always matter
to me.

the places i knew,
closed up
and silent
the people i knew,
closed up
and silent.

only the bus
puts on its lights
for me
reaches the curb
and kneels
for me
folding open
to receive me
enclose me
shelter me
from wind and rain
and snow and ice
to take me away
or toward
the glow of a window
or a table between
me and strangers
who find me
wanting
where i want to be
or don't
even when
it doesn't matter.

October 2019