No One Turned

I was on the bus one day.

Someone near me told a story

and the whole car leaned in to stay,

faces turning toward the glory

of whatever they were saying—something smart,

something funny, something bright.

And I remembered how I'd tried to start

the same thing once—to do it right.

I opened my mouth. Or I stood up.

Or I said something I thought was clever.

But the room kept going. Not one cup

of attention turned to me. Never.

The doors opened. Someone got on.

A man got off. The lights stayed pale.

I sat back down. The moment gone.

I was relieved. And I would fail

again at this, I knew—the desperate need

for eyes to turn. But at least

no one had watched me try and cede

to silence. That's my little peace.