NEPHART.COM

It wasn’t the first time

he stepped down from the bus

wearing a face

he did not choose.

The driver

again

that same loud song

like the speaker has only one memory

and it refuses to forget.

He rarely finds a seat.

But if a woman stands

with a child folded against her chest

he stands too.

Quietly.

Like kindness should be.

“Move forward!

Attach! Attach!”

the conductor shouts

as if humans are magnets

as if ribs are expandable property.

Sweat.

Perfume.

Sweat trying to fight perfume.

Perfume trying to assassinate sweat.

The air loses.

Politics.

Blah blah blah.

Dust of city.

Blah blah blah.

Someone’s in-laws.

Someone’s salary.

Someone’s suffering turned into entertainment.

Blah.

Blah.

Blah.

He does not even get time

to meet himself.

Bodies push.

Elbows negotiate.

And suddenly

his nose signs a peace treaty

with someone’s bone.

Then it happens.

A violent wave.

A shove.

A stumble.

Darkness.

His spectacles fall.

He bends.

Hands searching the floor

like a sightless man searching for yesterday.

Some laugh.

Some perform sympathy.

Serious faces.

Helping hands.

Hidden smiles.

Inside his head

the laughter grows.

Louder.

More louder.

Louder.

“Brother! Brother!”

A tap.

He turns.

A young man

holding his broken world.

“Here’s your spec.”

“Thanks.”

He looks at them.

One leg broken.

Left lens cracked.

Still standing.

A soldier

back from war.

And suddenly

everything is blur.

Not poetic blur.

Not romantic blur.

Poor blur.

He knows

his father cannot buy another pair.

So he wonders

Is the world I am seeing

truly blurry?

Or….

are their worlds

already cloudy

from the inside?

Maybe

my glasses broke.

Maybe

their vision did

long ago.