Missed Connections

It’s one drizzle wet morning
And the windows of the 147 bus are
Fogged.  I’m standing,
The soft rubber strap
Cutting into my hand
As I hang on for dear life.

Stop.

Start.

Traffic on LSD is brutal before 9,
But I’ve got you to
Pretend I’m not staring at.

Some kind of artist,
Carrying your work
Wrapped against the rain in
Plastic from a FedEx Office
Somewhere near where I live.
Where we live.  (After all,
You ride the same bus!)

I mean to catch your eyes and smile.
Instead, the one time it does happen,
All I can do is look away, guilty.
Caught.
Shouldn’t feel that way.  Other
Men don’t feel ashamed
To be looking, right?
But I’d like to think
I’m nicer than a
Construction worker’s wolf-whistle at
Some businesswoman’s hind end.

Down Michigan Ave
Some blond guy gets on
And checks you out, too.
So, sorry if
We bothered you.

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