I move towards a seat, weaving through
tired gazes that slide past each other, blur
until blank eyes match slack mouths.

these fleshy balloons drift
with the jerk and sway of the bus
until it heaves to a stop with a long-drawn sigh.

I keep going back to the place—there’s an
extra dimension to this moving water, a layer
of divine nostalgia. Suddenly I’m homesick

for that shy glance, and the gentle grasp
of those five fingers—memories are a
melody, and the aching wheels of the bus go round.