Route 24

The engine's hum rises and falls as the bus speeds up and slows down.
It passes by trees, by statues, by people, and by more trees.
It passes passersby, along with those standing with transfers in hand
as they wait for their rides to and from home.
And it passes your stop.
You're not there.
(Why?)

I guess I'm late.
I wish you were here to fill this empty seat
and keep me company on this cold, loud, lumbering bus.
The scenery is not enough.
It's you and your backpack, it's huge, like a worry--
you keep it at your feet to make room for us,
putting up with our cramped space for sitting for our journey.
It's the newspaper you clutch tightly,
rolled up--literary sushi--while you straighten out
the wrinkles from your striped shirt.
It's the subtle rings of fatigue beneath your eyes that only I seem to notice--
shadows taking away from those warm brown irises I wish to...
Oh, who cares about eyes?
(Well, I do.)
(Yours.)

I'm so happy I could I see your eyes,
your eyes as they skim through the sad reports you need to know about,
those details you must take note of
for your next debate in the square.
(... I wish to kiss them.)

There, I said it! (No, no, I didn't.)
(If only.)
I wish I had said it with you here, next to me, on this lumbering old cold bus-
But I have this terrible awkward nervous feeling.
Would you smile?
Or would you grin?