On a Crosstown Bus at Rush Hour

Time unveils each new pair of lights cut by black trees
to be not what we’ve awaited,
the transport to our neighborhoods, but rather the conveyance
of others, like us, stooped and eye-weary, prone as we are to error.

Of course, there are those differences
that give rise to envy: for example, they
are in motion and we’re still as telephone poles,
hung with books and hoods and baggage.

But even with a stereo and lumbar support
and air, a windshield and a wheel
and a captain’s seat or even on a moving bus, say,
the one that continues not to arrive,
there is no escaping this: accidents will happen
and you are not yet home.