A man, beaten by the old republic, and his ego
His skin color is of chocolate tones, with callused fingers.
He's in his 60s or so
Wearing dark shades in the early evening
With a white baseball cap with no logo, and a burly mustache
He wears a sweater and sits at the front of the bus
It's 80 degrees today
He talks loudly. A little too loudly
I am sitting in the middle section of the bus, trying to read
He's so loud I cannot pay attention to my fiction
So today I will listen to someone's reality
He yells out in conversation to a woman who does not care
He recently retired out of the union
He did construction
He carried Sheetrock
He carried bricks
So now his body has paid for it
She still does not care, but nods in hopes of him shutting the hell up
His legs no longer work the way they used to
He's in pain, only when he walks, he jokes
The problem with life
The problem in every country
See, 20 dollars is nothing, he explains
It's inflation
Inflation is the problem
Someone get this man a drink
You see, he says, it's me
I take the bus
For fun, kind of
One really gets to know their city using public transport
I spend my day rubbing shoulders with gays, lesbians, transphobes, and the Jews
The young, the old, the rich, the poor - regular folk
The blacks, the whites, the Asians, the angry women and men
Atheists, Agnostics, Jesus freaks, and raging wannabe politicians
They feel I am one of them somehow
And I am, kind of
If not a phony one, an honorary one
I accept them for who they are and I hope they accept me
It's an unwritten statement until now
Trust in me
I'll do my best
