Through the Rearview Mirror

[brynmawr1]

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.   these last two lines could be less telling more showing, eg her eyes searching faces or similar

The old man stomps on,
a cough sharp as broken glass.
The beer can in his coat rattles.  what's the can rattling against?
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,   maybe rearrange, 'earbuds leaking music'
a tide only they can hear.   I get what you mean, but conflicts with previous line

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—   not a fan of blooms.  A little cliche or at least not as original as some of your other writing
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.   maybe rearrange... 'glares at his watch/as if it owes him'  the time part can be implied.
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.    rearrange .... rain bleeding color.  a little more direct IMO but both work
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 ending doesn't quite land for me.  A little too unrealistic compared to the rest of the piece, esp 'reflections remain' which they don't.  
Consider
Only memories remain
like ghosts in the glass.          creates the image of the driver looking at the mirror and remembering, for me anyway.
With a slow hand
the driver cleans the mirror.       Let the reader connect the metaphors which, IMO, makes the ending more plausible

Hi Grady,
Another strong poem.  Many good lines throughout.  I made some minor suggestions above.  Others might have broader insight on other changes to consider.
Take care,
Bryn