Am I of this bus?
One of the transient souls drifting with my own profound destination?
The man speaking to himself in long winded sentences, and getting answers?
A boy with two sticks creating wonder from the wood he found in the world?
Are we lonely or independent?
Beating our own paths through this early-spring city,
winter-hardened and hopeful
We all fade forward
On rubber wheels and divergent futures
Taking turns pulling the chord
Stepping away from the we
Back to the solitary isolation of individual dreams
Eventually we all get off the bus