I dream.
I enter the bus.
I see him.
He’s in my regular seat,
wrapped in a brown, fur-lined coat.
Thin blond hair matted against his head.
He could have been somebody, I think.
I sit next to him,
feel him shiver.
His head bent forward.
I can see now, he’s hiding something.
I ask him what he has.
He shakes his head no.
Bites his chapped lips.
Whole body starts to tremble.
I think about pulling the emergency cord—
no one else notices he’s shaking.
There’s a man in a suit. A baby on a lap.
Preteen girls playing MASH.
Someone listening to a Walkman loudly.
Why can’t they see him?
His body shakes, I try and hold him still.
But he’s too big. Too long. Items fall
from his coat.
A diploma.
A poem.
A chess piece.
A feather.
I pick them up, stuff them into
my backpack. His whole body now
shaking, trembling, dying.
There’s nothing to do but
collect what’s falling.
A tie.
A bead.
A slotted spoon.
A sandwich.
I say loudly,
to deaf ears:
He could have been someone.
I yell until the bus stops.
I wake up screaming.