107/365: Popped Edges

inverse bus window

His head hung low into his lapels,
bobbing gently,
as though his sleep were rocked by the bus,
but, no,
the sudden, brown stab of his pants
sent a fast, hot burn up my neck,
and the pink knuckle poking rhythmically
through a hole in his fly
made me look away down the aisle,
as though I could see into the black
through the window's reflection
where I watched him anyway,
lost as he was in his private space
wedged in between
the popped edges
of his coat's collar.

#365poems at Schmutzie.com