I wipe the condensation
from the window and watch
the exhaust dance like a ribbon
on the concrete
and the steam rises from the gutters
like these thoughts from my mind.
You can leave this city behind
but some baggage is stuck with you
like shackles around your ankles
and I’m anchored to my seat
watching the towers
melt away
like a photograph set fire.
The bus stops
and my backpack falls to the floor
as we pick up one more night traveler
and as he walks up the steps
I see my face as his,
his guilt as mine
and the bus pulls away
and the exhaust dances like a ribbon
on the concrete.