A Brooklyn bus is always the same,

Bubblegum under seats, 

Crossed legs blonde in front of you

Reading, smiling

 

He's drinking beer from a can,

And scratching his neck.

She's pushing her way to the back of the bus,

Her hair is red

curly

her child is 9 months old

 

When he gets off the bus, he walks right by me

He stutters when he mumbles excuse me

But he smells like curry and home

 

A bus in Brooklyn is perfume,

And cigarettes

And shame

And bagels

 

She plays music loud enough to hear

And clacks long nails on her phone

She's chewing bubblegum 

And her hair smells like whiskey

 

He falls asleep on my shoulder, 

My stop is next