the man on the bus.

the man on the bus is curled up in the back corner. we have never met, but i know him well. i've stared into his dark, sullen eyes, like a starless urban sky - blind and vacant. his alcohol breath sways, crashin' into me like waves, putting me to pieces and sweeping me up after breakfast. he has no words. i have no words. we are two strangers riding a crowded city bus together - our wayward glances colliding and the smell of piss permeating, becoming our sacred aroma. human static buzzin' in our ears, all the same, consistent and long as the engine hum. riding on the bus - our makeshift, reluctant communion - taking all the people to their places, our separate nests, our private colonies. the man on the bus is in my eyes, shriveled up in the corner, like the flowers on my kitchen table.