The 47 Freewrite

These people don't
know where they're going
pulling the wrong strings
fumbling to apologize
to the pissed off driver
in Eastern European accents

I watch them closely
silently
with open eyes unblinking,
I still fit in one seat even with legs crossed
spine pressed into generic blue
as the plastic bus rattles the early 5 pm commuters
underneath ugly yellow bars
and haze of ozone alert that saves money
but not the world
it's code red
but no one bats an eyelash

the businessmen in dark suits
carrying safeway bags
the older overweight Hispanic women
drained to the blunt point of exhaustion
it bounces in their cheeks at the speed bumps
tired eyes and mint gum
sparkly cell phone covers
the 30-something yuppie sitting next to me
his shoulders too close
his eyes too tilted in my direction
I swing checkered Vans
above the ribs of the dirty floor

these people don't know where they're going
but I do, every swimming pool blue sign
each turn in roads named after cut-down trees
even if I couldn't tell you how to get there

I wonder how long they waited just to sit here
they don't know that tapping your foot
won't make the bus come faster
they probably just want to speed up their life
to get everything over with
it's sad, really,
I'm in no hurry

I could have been anyone on this particular 47
but it didn't happen that way
by chance I was born as myself
unlabeled and random
maybe even surprising
like when you process a roll of film
you've forgotten about
forgot you even existed that day
but I exist every day, every particle
of every little smidge of time that doesn't even matter

and I like it like this
more at home when I'm not home
when I'm by myself wandering
there's just that good side of me
the only genuine side of me
the one I save for solitude and
people I care about.

I could be this way forever
disconnected and surreal,
chaotic and abstract, half myself
and half the world
and not even care
where the next stop is.