Transfer Point

The bus was full of damp wool and the smell of city rain,

a collective, weary silence on the local transit vein.

Then a jar of pickles slipped and hit the metal floor,

a sudden, wet explosion by the middle folding door.

The green brine started running through the grooves of cold steel,

and nobody moved a muscle, which is how we mostly feel.

But a man in a stained parka reached down into the glass

and picked up the largest shard to let a pregnant woman pass.

He cut his thumb and didn't flinch, just wiped it on his knee,

a small and bloody witness to a quiet dignity.

I sat there with my grocery list and felt a sudden chill,

watching the vinegar pool while the world stayed perfectly still.