Clean

The bus driver, perhaps his shift's about to end
cared not that the man got on without fare,
or maybe, he must have slipped in unnoticed
as the buzzing light drawn our thoughts inward.
So suddenly he sat amongst us, in that proximity
we allowed ourselves here but no place else,
discomfort expressed only with our shifting feet
or the drawing of our bags closed to our selves.
And while we silently fought the contagion of
pungent smell, his layers of smearing grime,
(though we would have no fear of the Grey Pilgrim)
or our breath commingling in the circulating air -
he could see none of this, so busy was he
cleaning his hands and face with his spits,
licking in that fastidiousness of a cat in repose, after dinner.