He sits at the bus stop

everyday

the world hurrys past

smile wrinkles deepen

never been on a bus

not one

of the smartphone-bus pass-agenda kind of people

She is there

everyday

in school uniform:

holes in the elbows

shirt hem above skirt waist

she sits next to him

draws and writes in books as heavy as her

like a granddaughter would

her world is too crowded with strangers

to see him

his is sprinkled with bus stop regulars:

his children who don't know it yet

he notices her graying skin, thinning thighs, 

garbage bags framing twinkleless eyes,

no one else does

he worries

she wants someone to hear her 

and care

he puts down the newspaper to watch her

she does not draw anymore

ever

her glassy bloodshot eyes gaze

at her interpretation of a future:

they find nothing to rest on

she paints now

in blood across her skin

he notices

it hurts him

she thinks it only hurts her

she deserves it

she thinks

he knows she thinks wrong

skeletal body

gray skin surrounds pink scabs

he decides to save her.

he watches every person

on and off his bus

some look blue, tomorrow they are violet

she went from blue to gray

to see-through

because she thought she started out

invisible

tomorrow, she was not at the bus stop

he worried

or the next day

he cried

or the next day

neither was he

she never came back to his bus stop

or any

neither did he