Wrong Stop

The 14 runs the same route it always ran.

I'd convinced myself I'd forgotten that.

The vinyl seats the same split at the seam,

the same smell of recycled heat and other people's

damp jackets.

Three rows ahead, a man was asleep against the window.

I watched him the way you watch

something that's not your business

and watch anyway.

He woke up at Delaney.

Looked outside.

Didn't reach for the cord.

For two full stops he sat there—

his face in the dark glass over the street

going past, eyes open, doing whatever

internal work that is.

I know that look.

I've worn it in different windows.

He got off at Carver without looking at anyone.

The doors closed.

I rode three more stops

past where I needed to be.