The Sighing Doors, Or, Gum on the Seat Back

The rain outside, it streaks and blurs the pane,

a wet grey film, like memory's soft pain.

The number 14, slow and predictable, it sighs,

its hydraulic doors, closing, a tired beast dies

a little at each stop, with that soft, drawn-out groan.

Another stranger leaves, I sit here, all alone.

My eyes just drift, they always do, they find

the ugly things, the thoughts I leave behind.

A gum stain, on the seat right up ahead,

hardened and grey, like a small, dead dread.

A fossilized pink, with teeth marks still there,

a tiny, forgotten bite, a silent despair.

Who chewed it? Why leave it? The questions they stick.

Just like the gum, a small, unpleasant flick

of something human, left, discarded, done.

The bus pulls forward, chasing a weak sun,

and every stop, the doors, they sigh and groan,

and I just watch the world outside, alone.