71A, Friday Night. 8:30, Maybe 9:00

I rode the bus home
and took special notice
of the frozen expressions
on people’s faces. Still.
Complacent. We hit a bump
and I bit the inside of my cheek.

I wondered if my demeanor
looked as dejected to them as
theirs to me. Each bump and roll
dragged their heads in unison,
left, right. The faces kept steady,
unmoved, staring straight ahead.

The bite started to throb and my
mouth tasted of iron. I pushed my
tongue in the hole to see if I could
still feel pain.