his eyes were blurred, half open
and constantly shifting, his mouth
a soft **** along his chin, his hand
twisting among the grey, wiry curls on his head
and with one arm along the seat behind him
he slouched, facing the doors
like an uncomfortable silence
like an awkward comment
like someone who didn’t belong
and yet i could see that he did
there on the bus at one in the morning
this man was at home, as he tried
to make eye contact with me and i turned
to the window instead
and the woman behind him moved
to the back of the bus as soon as she could
to escape his wayward, grasping fingers
and i felt pity for him
grey, gasping pity
pity that made my eyes travel back and forth
between the window and indoors
as, inexplicably, i tried to capture
the creature sitting there
and i watched his feet shift
as the bus rocked beneath us and somehow
i saw the world from his eyes, the shady seats
and the angular, beautiful people
each one passing him by
hands gripping the posts and avoiding his gaze
and his mind was swimming in amber liquid
i knew that, i saw it
plain as day, this man was drunk
and though when he met my eyes
my brow was furrowed, my face uninviting
inside, i felt that same aching pity
and i thought ****, i’ll make poetry
from this somehow
and perhaps the words are simple
but i’m sure it’s the first time
that anybody has ever put that man
down on a piece of paper
in full colour