Quiet women and timid men, hugging
the relative comfort of chairs, eyes averted from shared smells,
faces at odds; noses and mouths in curled disapproval,
looking elsewhere.
A man has been knifed. Sliced behind the ear by a boy
who didn't think about the catch-up-crush on the stairs.
One of them is caught; bear hugged down by a drip-red,
blue collared, cut-up man.
Sat him on his lap like a squirming babe.
I didn't see the slice. Usually ride up front
peering through the reflection at the icy road:
I count scarves, hats, gloves, and hoods.
Turned to see the action and he cut
the condensation with something:
'Why don't any of you do anything?
Are you going to sit and give this world to them?'
Slowly, there became a less reluctant us;
'I called the police,' she said; he said, 'Stop the bus.'
