A sonnet for class(contemporary, non-iambic and meteric play was OK)
People are shifting in hard blue plastic
seats in city buses all across the
country, with their necks craned forward, like birds
picking through squares of mud for the worm’s twists.
Sometimes their laden heads fall over and
matted hair spills on the window, pressing
their gaze hard against glass like they mean to
break through. I was looking over just such
a stranger(you, with your arms crossed up in
straitjacket fashion) when our stares got all
tangled. You smiled a little and then
I smiled so big it hurt. Our faces
were like hot rust from that fire we felt
should burn in every bus in America.