Where The Bus Stops

A loud nothing, detonating
aloud; proudly I believe
I can resuscitate my own,
before it kids with who I see ahead.

Echoes bantam on the sidewalk.
I'm running tip-toed through the fray
that I can hear but I bet that guy
who's waiting for the bus cannot;
he's got his iPod in his ears
listening to sprockets turn,
living something dead
until he's one with what he wants.

I wonder if his music's mine,
at least in like, so that we can
at some point, be together and not
exchange glances that avoid.

Looking into his eyes,
I see myself speak, harm done,
yet not in the conversation,
because he's waiting for the bus
and frankly, I don't know where he's off to,
another station on his mind map,
searching in the struggle of signs
for himself, as he moves right past.