Through the Rearview Mirror

[busker]

Wheels hum, rubber whispers to asphalt.
The windshield fogged with morning haze,  …. Too wordy, reads like prose. 
dreams still clinging….. the metaphor comes too soon. Set the scene first 
The mirror tilts—
a tilted world….too much telling.

The old woman climbs aboard,
veins threading her hands,
her cane tapping patience into the floor. …. Three good lines. Could be made tighter.
Her purse held tight—
a bread roll, a lifetime folded inside.
No one looks.
She sees everything. …. Is the hyperbole necessary? Detracts again from the slice of life style observation going on above 

The old man stomps on,
a cough sharp as broken glass.
The beer can in his coat rattles….. three good lines 
He sinks into the first seat,
knees wide,
a crayon box cracking beneath his boot. … nice one 
No apology.

In the mirror, faces blur:
hooded teens hunched over phones,
thumbs twitching,
music leaking from earbuds, … nice 
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. …. Too many words to say what you’re saying. Make it more punchy.
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— … nice 
names, arrows, anger,
pointing nowhere…nice

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…:: good ending. 

Hi Grady - this is a fine piece of observation. The writing is too ‘loose’ for a poem. Try halving the number of lines and condensing this one.