Eighth Avenue

Five-thirty p.m., 1985.
A crowded bus.
The passengers generate heat as
the men stand round-shouldered,
reading newspapers, and we all
sway to the rhythm of the city traffic.
I scan the rows for an empty seat and
I angle past the others, ignoring all,
except for one.
He stoops under a worn gray hat,
an overcoat overwhelms his slight body
and his dark eyes glance from row to row
with urgency as the bus halts.
A seat opens and the little man
moves toward the vacancy.
I am closer, and I will have it before him.
The man grips the overhead bar for balance.
He is short and his coat sleeve slides
to his elbow and faded blue numbers
appear on his forearm.
They are clear enough.
I stand motionless as he slides by me.
There is room for him to pass, but
he steps sideways.
He does not look up.
He says nothing.