I fear
the loneliness of an aged man

holding onto the grip of the bus
with his arthritis hands

with his soar knuckles
shook to his fingertips

I fear
the old woman's short temper
her waist resting against
her bags of groceries
on the bus seat

falling asleep to the sound of
children from the back

we all hear "dreams" differently

I fear the type of loneliness
not an empty island in the middle
of the pacific
but an apartment you have spent
your whole adult life in

like a bed that has not been moved
in decades
like forks and knives on the dinner
table pointed
to the same direction
always

I fear a type of solitude
where I'd see a family of three
passing by my lawn and
I can't imagine myself in their shoes

When I have missed a part of life
busy untangling myself from pride

I fear
the windowed grandfathers
the divorced elderly
the senior citizens with no family
who know the routes of the city bus
too well

never lost,
just not enough change