The person sat by me,
Is calling somebody,
He's saying 'I love you'
Is that so unusual,
To feel so alone in that moment?

The lovers at the front,
Have had more than enough
Of their parents' scrutiny
So they commit mutiny,
And consequences are left unspoken.

The cold condensation
Hides all condescension,
From every pedestrian
With bitter complexions
Who braved the cold and are frozen.

Forty seats,
Occupied by 40 different personalities.
The destination,
For now,
Is same.
Just passing the time:
Gazing out of the window,
Talking to a stranger,
Engrossed in mobile phones,
Taking a nap.
Or writing,
*Like me.

Hazel eyes on the bus
I looked for you,
You looked for me.


--Watercolour

Tears fill my eyes,
As I stare at this blue
Blue sky,

I'm so
****** frustrated,
Why is it always like this?
Why am I  like this?

Why?

I like writing poems
in buses.
I like the image
of letters leaving
and trailing
behind the bus
as it moves
towards its destination.
On stop signs,
I get stuck
on a word
letting it sink
in me,
leaving me
no excuse
to escape.
In every car,
bus, truck,
there is a poet
driving away
from something,
leaving his works
on the asphalt.
Not one pedestrian
ever dared
to read it
or pick it up,
at least,
to throw it
in the trash.
If only poems
fill up potholes
and bumpy roads,
bus-rides
would be
smoother.

Bus stop dreads stop me in my tracks because I'm too white to be coming
   around here.
My clothes are too ***** and my smile too honest.
I live a life of privilege that has nothing to do with the color of my skin or
   the "insufficient funds" in my bank account.
Idle time is the devil's plaything they say,
But the devil has always sent his own to take care of me.
So we just keep on walking, not to be judged by the race based politics of those who have no recognized power over us.

a ride on the bus
sitting in the back row
staring out windows

I saw you on the bus yesterday.
The first thing I saw was your leather jacket
The one with the orange patch
Your hair was golden brown
And its waves fell down to your shoulder
You pulled out a book
And I see the small scribble of a tattoo on your right hand
As hard as I tried I couldn't see exactly what you were reading
I imagine it was something done by Faulkner, Twain, or Hemingway
I imagine you listen to jazz and drink black coffee
You play the banjo and guitar
You order scotch on the rocks
Every ******* time
You write poetry for your friends sometimes
And You claim its terrible
And your friends claim it brilliant
You would write me some,
and I would recite it when we fight
You would take pictures of me when I wake up in the morning
with nothing but your shirt on
You would take them to the dark room
and hide them in your drawer
You would laugh at me when I put on your ******* glasses
and I at you when you would tell me bad jokes
You would drag me with you
to see all of your favorite shows
And I would joke like you actually had to drag me
I would drag you shopping
but you never minded as long as it was a thrift store
Our apartment would be small
Because neither of us cared too much about being wealthy
We would follow our dreams
I would paint
and tell people how they are feeling
And you would play music
and sing
and write
and tell me how I am feeling
We would be rich
with love
The love girls pray for every night
before they go to sleep
See, we would wake up every day with that feeling
like the one you get when your crush in high school says hello in the hall
We wold be mad for each other
But I don't even know you
There on the bus
I watched you, a stranger, walk on
and walk off
In this amount of time
I have constructed
a whole new path of life
A path I might have taken
if I would have picked up my bag
sit two seats closer
If I wasn't so nervous of what you may think of me
and asked you about your book
Do you like it?
What is your name?
If I were to have asked you out for coffee
Life today would be different
I would be saying your name over and over in my head
I would have started the book you are reading
Maybe I would be texting you
right now
Instead of writing a poem
Maybe I would be writing about the man I met on the bus
not the man I never met
Maybe you would break my heart one day
But we may never know now
Maybe I will see you again
Maybe then I will ask for your name
or the book you were reading in February
But this city is a big City
And there might not be such a thing called fate
And so I will miss you
And your scribble tattoo
And the path I was too scared to take.