The Things That Happen On The Way

   Monday morning is shining in through a window specked with dust from years of running on dirty streets, in little cloud-like patterns. Maybe you could draw in them, leave messages and letters to strangers. But that would be strange. Besides, I'm reading a newspaper. That is who I am on this bus in the morning: the man who reads the paper. You can't just upset that kind of routine to write a love poem in dust to a stranger. Though I want to. So I stare at the window, past the article I'm not reading. I don't stare at the woman who is mumbling to herself and shaking, because that is what she does. That is what she's there for. And I am not the man that stares at crazy people. I read the newspaper. And I don't introduce myself to the girl with the sad face, because I am not the man who comforts sad people. I get off at my stop, and walk down the street. Because I am the man who goes to work.