A little like me,
sealed,
but the seams don't match.
I'm standing backwards on a bus
because there isn't enough room to
turn around.
Nor do I want to.
Because even if there was room,
if there weren't so many
people
headed to the same place I am.
And assuming I wanted to see where
I was going
instead of where I'd immediately been.
I have just plain to much baggage
to allow me to turn around.
Such a simple pivot is made amazingly
complicated
by the weight
of the words
that i carry in a beach bag
by my hip.
There are the planners,
and calendars,
the interesting bit of plastic I found
on the street this morning
that I thought might be useful
even though I can't imagine what for.
And there are the color-coded
red-green-blue
seven-forty-five-to-half-past-when
schedules.
That heap of organization
would tumble and bubble
pell-mell
from the bag by my hip
(that matches my jacket
and scarf
and the cuffs on my mittens
that no one can see anyway).
All of my right-angle efforts
neatly-filed papers
planners
and crisp-edged folders
risk being defiled
on the muddy-boot rivers
that run the length of the aisle.
All of it would explode
if I were to try
to turn around.
So I stand there
sandwiched like so much tuna
between a man I am sure showers
less often than I cut my hair
and a woman
wearing almost enough perfume
to cover him up.
I ponder all of this
and I decide
I'm fine.
In fact,
I am perfectly content
to watch the green light
on the back of the bus
inform me that it is now safe
to open the door.