Through the Rearview Mirror

[Grady VanWright]

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.

[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

[Grady VanWright]

[/quote]
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
[/quote]

Thanks, Bryn. again, I appreciate your feedback, and will begin work immediately implementing these insightful suggestions.

[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.

[poetry_zealot]

Wheels hum, rubber whispers to asphalt.
The windshield fogged with morning haze,
dreams still clinging.                                 Beautiful Imagery
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.                        While I understand the intent behind these last two lines, I don't think it works with the rest of the stanza. I've highlighted the two previous sentences within this stanza and the last two lines (both being sentences) are much shorter which affects the overall pacing of the stanza. Perhaps find a way to elongate the two sentences or connect them.

The old man stomps on,
a cough sharp as broken glass.
The beer can in his coat rattles.
He sinks into the first seat,                         Perhaps don't use sink as the verb. It is far too passive and inactive in contrast to the other words you've used to build his character.
knees wide,
a crayon box cracking beneath his boot.
No apology.                                                 Not sure if the last line is necessary but it may just be a personal choice of mine.

In the mirror, faces blur:
hooded teens hunched over phones,
thumbs twitching,
music leaking from earbuds,
a tide only they can hear.                              The last two lines contradict each other. If the music is leaking from earbuds, then others can hear too. Good imagery throughout this stanza though.

At the next stop,
a woman stumbles in,
her stroller wailing on squeaky wheels.
A toddler clings to her leg,
sticky-fingered and tired.                            I'm not sure I get the image you're going for here. How does the toddler cling onto her leg when the women is presumably pushing the stroller in with the handle on the back.
Perhaps split the stanza into two here.
Men stare at their laps.                                        Maybe replace the period with a semicolon
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—           Beautiful Imagery
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.                Good writing
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.                Wasn't he looking at his watch though...

The bus smells of grease, sweat, wet umbrellas—
lives in transit.                                              This feels off from the rest of the stanza. The line is shorter and abrupt.
Everything blurs into a single scent,
like old rain on pavement.

At night, the mirror dims.                           There was no indication that the mirror was bright or lit...
Faces smudge into shadows.
Neon streaks the glass,                 
colors bleeding into rain.        Beautiful
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.         Perhaps replace glass with mirror. Keeps the extended metaphor going to the end.
The driver wipes them away
with a slow hand.                 

Overall, a really interesting piece. Incredible imagery, metaphors, and extended metaphors. A few issues with diction and syntax but other than that there is not much more I can say about this piece.