Five-thirty p.m., 1985, A crowded bus. The passengers generate heat as The men stand round-shouldered Reading newspapers, and we all Sway to the rhythm of the city traffic. I scan the rows for an empty seat and I angle past the others, ignoring all Except for one. He stoops under a worn gray hat, An overcoat overwhelms his slight body And his dark eyes glance from row to row With urgency as the bus halts. A seat opens and the little man Moves toward the vacancy. I am closer, and I will have it before him. The man grips the overhead bar for balance. He is short and his coat sleeve slides To his elbow and faded blue numbers Appear on his forearm. They are clear enough. I stand motionless as he slides by me. There is room for him to pass, but He steps sideways. He does not look up. He says nothing.