They sit closely
rocked by the steady rhythm of travel
young in skin, old in eyes.
He wears his hat off the beaten path,
she strokes his arm in comfort, protection.
Their hands clasped
like they buckle each other in
shielding one another
from the weight of each bump,
from every over-zealous mouth surrounding.
“Damn kids,” says the glare from the seat across
examining their faulty attire
as if the entire world should be composed
of buttons and belts and corduroy
with no slack in between.
He leads their front as they depart,
she watches their behind
(just to be certain).
Everything they own
resides in their stride
and as such,
the dust of the street
doesn’t harm much.