Route 37

Rain ran streaks down the window's pane.

Distorted faces, wet and plain,

superimposed on blurred streetlights.

The 37 groaned through city nights.

My breath fogged glass, then cleared again.

Another block, the same old rain.

Heads down, staring, some at phones.

Just empty seats, and muffled groans.

Reflected me, a ghost-like form,

watching the world outside the storm.

Just passing through, a disconnected view.

No place to go, nothing to do.