On the City Bus

On the City Bus

On the city bus.
I haven't been on a city bus
In over thirty years.

Aisles seem a bit wider,
But maybe not. Bench seats
Look pretty much the same.

Windows, I know, are larger,
Wider, higher panes of glass,
Tinted too. Didn't have the

Sun-shielding tinted kind
Years ago when I use to ride.
Even the riders look the same

As those I remember--old people,
Young people, all colors and sizes,
Well-dressed and not, a rainbow

Array of faces all hiding their eyes
With glassy stares out the window,
Unblinking eyes looking straight

Ahead into the forever aisles of outer space.
The driver could be his father's father
Who has been driving buses and calling

Out street names ever since the time
When horses pulled street cars on rails.
On the city bus words are guarded as pearls

Saved only for responding when spoken to.
One man mumbles to himself, talking to
Someone close in his mind's imagining.

Those nearby look off elsewhere, off into
the imaginary miles beyond. I haven't been
On a city bus in over thirty years.

Since then, I have aged considerably,
But the other riders, they never seem
To change. It could be 1976 all over

Again for all I know, except for the
Tinted windows, of course, with wider,
Higher, sun-shielding double-glazed panes

Where the eyes inside get a smoky view
of the city passing by. Through them,
I imagine seeing for miles and miles beyond.