Bystander

The jar hit the floor of the bus and cracked

at 7:42. I know the time

because I checked it—not her, not the fact

of honey spreading. I was counting. I'm

always counting. If I help, I miss

the transfer, if I miss the transfer

I'm late, if I'm late—you get this,

the math moves faster

than the feeling. She knelt

in it. Bare hands in the glass,

pulling shards from honey. I felt

my clean fingers grip the strap. The last

thing I expected was the quiet.

Eight of us, feet up,

watching the honey collect

every crumb, every scuff,

moving slow across the ridged floor

like it had all the time

we didn't. She wiped her palms

on her jeans. I could climb

down from this if I tried—

say the bus was crowded, say

I didn't see. But I saw.

I got off. The day

went on being a day.

My hands stayed clean.

I keep washing them anyway.