Morning Bus

He wakes late to find that as he slept

he’s been touched by the whisper – by the images

of his dreams – a seagull

bending toward a curving ocean. Nothing’s

different. He mutters to himself. He

shaves, makes coffee, plods

through some stale bread. But

sitting on the bus it’s clear. He can feel things --

passengers hunched in their seats, bent. Lauren

who just got braces, believes people can see

through her clothes. Tommy, the all-night mechanic

sifts through the lies, praying “God,

let me keep them straight when I get home.” Why,

do we talk to ourselves like this – rummaging

through the fragments. Jonathan, his head

in his palms, imagines

a day when every bill comes due. “Hey…”

he realizes, and this is the part that’s new, “If we

are gall going to waste this bus ride, talking

to ourselves, looping

through the old, over and over, why not

imagine something wonderful -- an orange sunset,

a sleeping child’s soft breath

– something excellent. And so he rises

from his seat and clears

his throat, so that everyone looks up

from their phones. But then he can’t think,

of how to begin.