01-20-2025, 10:25 PM
Wheels hum, rubber whispers to asphalt.
The windshield fogged with morning haze,
dreams still clinging.
The mirror tilts—
a tilted world.
The old woman climbs aboard,
veins threading her hands,
her cane tapping patience into the floor.
Her purse held tight—
a bread roll, a lifetime folded inside.
No one looks.
She sees everything.
The old man stomps on,
a cough sharp as broken glass.
The beer can in his coat rattles.
He sinks into the first seat,
knees wide,
a crayon box cracking beneath his boot.
No apology.
In the mirror, faces blur:
hooded teens hunched over phones,
thumbs twitching,
music leaking from earbuds,
a tide only they can hear.
At the next stop,
a woman stumbles in,
her stroller wailing on squeaky wheels.
A toddler clings to her leg,
sticky-fingered and tired.
Men stare at their laps.
A boy with a skateboard stands,
his sneakers split at the seams.
The woman says nothing,
rocking her child to the bus’s turns.
Outside, graffiti blooms on concrete—
names, arrows, anger,
pointing nowhere.
In the mirror,
a man in a suit tightens his tie,
checks his watch,
glares at time as if it owes him.
Behind him,
a woman in a floral dress watches.
Her gaze pools with questions.
He doesn’t see her,
eyes fixed on the glowing screen,
scrolling for what he’ll never find.
The bus smells of grease, sweat, wet umbrellas—
lives in transit.
Everything blurs into a single scent,
like old rain on pavement.
At night, the mirror dims.
Faces smudge into shadows.
Neon streaks the glass,
colors bleeding into rain.
The bus groans uphill,
its engine a tired animal.
The old woman is gone.
The old man is gone.
The boy with the skateboard,
the mother with her child—gone.
Only reflections remain,
ghosts trapped in the glass.
The driver wipes them away
with a slow hand.
The windshield fogged with morning haze,
dreams still clinging.
The mirror tilts—
a tilted world.
The old woman climbs aboard,
veins threading her hands,
her cane tapping patience into the floor.
Her purse held tight—
a bread roll, a lifetime folded inside.
No one looks.
She sees everything.
The old man stomps on,
a cough sharp as broken glass.
The beer can in his coat rattles.
He sinks into the first seat,
knees wide,
a crayon box cracking beneath his boot.
No apology.
In the mirror, faces blur:
hooded teens hunched over phones,
thumbs twitching,
music leaking from earbuds,
a tide only they can hear.
At the next stop,
a woman stumbles in,
her stroller wailing on squeaky wheels.
A toddler clings to her leg,
sticky-fingered and tired.
Men stare at their laps.
A boy with a skateboard stands,
his sneakers split at the seams.
The woman says nothing,
rocking her child to the bus’s turns.
Outside, graffiti blooms on concrete—
names, arrows, anger,
pointing nowhere.
In the mirror,
a man in a suit tightens his tie,
checks his watch,
glares at time as if it owes him.
Behind him,
a woman in a floral dress watches.
Her gaze pools with questions.
He doesn’t see her,
eyes fixed on the glowing screen,
scrolling for what he’ll never find.
The bus smells of grease, sweat, wet umbrellas—
lives in transit.
Everything blurs into a single scent,
like old rain on pavement.
At night, the mirror dims.
Faces smudge into shadows.
Neon streaks the glass,
colors bleeding into rain.
The bus groans uphill,
its engine a tired animal.
The old woman is gone.
The old man is gone.
The boy with the skateboard,
the mother with her child—gone.
Only reflections remain,
ghosts trapped in the glass.
The driver wipes them away
with a slow hand.