On a bus
there is no talking.
Eye contact is prohibited.
But, accidentally,
i find myself staring
an impolite, uncultured savage
unversed in transportation taboo.

I tend to
stare,
analyzing through my curiosity
the sullen boy
pinching the bridge of his nose
kneading nails into his tear ducts
thumb and forefinger
like thin fangs of an asp
trying to clog those tiny holes
numb them
to keep searing clear venom
from leaking out onto his iPod.

or the middleaged couple a row ahead
squeezed tight against each other on the hard seats
a leathery, wind-burned man
with a velcro Rough-Riders hat
wooing his partner ruthlessly
his body bent awkardly around
twisting his torso
until his whimsical face
peers up at hers,--eyes eager,--
old dog ready to lay on a sloppy kiss;

she responds with a coy,
self-satisfied smile,
her worn, red hands
resting on her stained jeans girlishly--
so glad to find an eager suitor
(though slobbery and unwashed)
this far into the autumn of her life.
Her cheeks glow
like the rosy skins of apples in the sun
ripe with secrets.

I find it strange
that I cannot look into someone's eyes
but I must bear their hips or crotch
swaying ominously in my face as the bus
dips and turns
it's an arguably strange polite gesture
to avoid pupil to pupil contact.