Bus Poem #2

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.