The poem needs another stanza. Two parts don't seem to suit the topic, so expect to see hearty revision of this in the future. I'll have to schedule in another bus trip for research.
The Junk Bound Riders
A man with wild hair and a red beard
stares through thick glasses, looks unsure.
The glass doors stay open.
Cool air floods the sidewalk.
In time, he heaves his bag over his shoulder,
joins the other junk bound riders
whose tissue paper skin is smudged
blue and purple like the stamps
of cigarette butts on the concrete.
No one is alone here. In the aisle,
a thin man clamps down on a toothpick.
He is left-handed. I know this.
Marks to the right, write with the left.
He carries a lamp in one hand,
a camouflage backpack in the other.
A D.C. Comics baseball cap perched
on his head: the S is for Superman.
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