| Public transit |
| The seat behind the driver�s chair is mine The only section from his mirrors hid So when I slide my ticket in the lid Myself as well, exact behind the line. Once safely in my chrysalis entwined Enclosed from world without, one soul amid The wasteland, mindless thread of selfdom rid By silk self-wrought, to block out every sign Of intimates, of these and thous and thine Bereft in dreamless slumber, cold sea-brine: On every face a narrative is writ Though lacking script, dull eyes retain the wit In protest, shriek against the endless tide � But I remain, unseeing and unspied. |
 |
 |
| � 2003 Kyle Altis. All rights reserved. |