Junk Bound Riders
A man with wild hair and a red beard
stares through thick glasses, looks unsure.
The glass doors slide open. Bus 12A.
Cool air floats across the sidewalk.
An oasis in the summer heat. In time,
the man heaves his bag over his shoulder
and joins the others, their tissue paper skin
smudged like the stamps of cigarette butts
on the concrete.
My neighbor has arms like black licorice.
Her soft jaw chews words without teeth.
Consonants rounded like vowels
smack between her lips like taffy.
She rides often, but tends to go nowhere.
Mouth mashing, she flutters though
conversation after conversation.
No one is alone here. In the aisle,
a thin man clamps teeth to 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.
D.C. Comics baseball cap perched
on his head: S is for Superman.
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