squeal~hiss, brakes release as the cross town bus drags its feet on the way to getting us somewhere, picking up more people headed the same place we are, somewhere, no where, now here. the windows bear marks of faces pressed to the glass watching those passed and past places that once meant something, now buildings abandoned or refurbished to house someone, hide the bodies of the systems latest victim.
left, right, left, the maze we weave through the streets, faces join us, faces leave. we are all characters in this morning story. a man, tan skin creased, soul patch beneath his lips carries a case-less guitar and periodically picks a string with his ring finger, without even noticing, but the woman two seats over cant stop focusing on it, by facial expression, but says nothing.
its a buffet, where you choose whose life to taste by the seat you pick, but the one next to me is empty. we roll on stop, by stop. faces come and faces go. in po-town, projects, we pick up a few ladies just finishing work as the sun rises, their legs pearlescent lies'n books laid open til spines broken, well read & dog eared, barely disguised in short skirts that leave little unexposed to the elements of imaginations.
he boards behind them, silent as he cases his options prowling taut down the well trod rubber ribbed aisle. what skin visible, an inked canvas of muscle to the knuckle & below his eye, indigo tear eternally. sliding in beside, huff'n blow, he's ready to go, phone rings & shows a little brown haired girls picture & he thumbs the slide, passing the caller over.
yours? i ask, curious
dos hijos, i touch my chest
and for next five minutes, regardless of where we been, culture, circumstance or language barrier, we are two dads on a bus, flashing pictures in cell phone pixels, heading somewhere, no where, now here, where faces come and faces go and a man strums a guitar, without even noticing.
linking with the Poetry Jam.