Bus Window Face

The bus lurches, a long sigh

of air brakes, and I'm staring out

at nothing much. Just wet streetlightslurred into smears.

Then my own face, ghosted back,

from the grimy glass. Not mine, not really.

A stranger's eyes, dark and deep-set,

looking in, not out.

And for a half-beat, before the motionreaks the spell, I wonder

who's there. Who's watching me

from behind my own reflection.

It was a cold shock, a tiny shiver.

The city, it breathes close.

It knows where you're going,

always looking over your shoulder.