Riding the Bus at Night

The night bus 
cradles the weary 
and 
those waiting 
for the day

only those who 
know 
the city’s cocoon 
can appreciate 
the hustle 
and ritual
of its 
morning 
butterflies 

or

the way speed 
blurs tenement lights
into a stained glass display—
diffused halos 
of 
red and green,
blue and yellow.

To ride 
the night bus
demands 
you living 
with the shadows
moving
with you,
behind you,
staring down at you
from all 
that is 
decaying 
and 
rising up 
all around you.

Maybe 
you will 
spend the ride
staring indifferently 
into the night, 
trying to understand 
the mystery of the dark

whether 
these shadows
are 
guardian angels
or 
vengeful demons

or
just another 
version of you
even more lost,
and 
are unable 
to help
in the 
speeding bye.

You 
can share it
with 
your mate,
but seeing 
their own 
helpless terror
will keep them 
silent to yours

or 
you can 
touch 
the seat in front 
in dread,

maybe 
join the night,
like all others,
in sleep,
suspended between
yet neither 
touching
metal nor leather—
hoping for 
bright dreams
and not 
uneasy nightmares

perhaps
at the very least 
resting 
your elbow 
on 
the metal neck brace
in front,
cupping your ear
with your hand,
screening out half the screech 
of 
all the inevitable 
stopping and starting,
hoping
for just limbo.   

Ultimately,
you notice 
that the love 
that’s next to you
is real 
and that 
when you 
close your eyes
and kiss,
the dark 
turns bright 
and 
the next stop, 
the one that 
you both 
get off on,
is a short 
walk home.