nobody gave you their seat  
your bag looks heavy
sagging on your round shoulder
with the weight
of twice and thrice told tales
none of those seat hoggers
likely cared to hear,  
in our penitent past
you
had to sit
in the rear  
perhaps your bag holds stories
that old, that bold,  
now you are front and center
tethered to the bus and
this world with a rubber cord,
a hanging loop, for those
who wait for simple seats
or their journey’s end
at some blurry stop,
where others climb on
with their own weights and woes  
and clasp the same old strap
that drew defiant blood,
the loop that once strangled
freedom’s cries,  but now
is only a handle to grab
for those
who have no seat
on the same old road