I’m sitting in a bus crossing over the Charles River,
looking at the buildings stacked over each other like legos,
the old man next to me sneaking sips of whiskey underneath his mask,
complaining about people who talk on the phone on the bus,
to a woman currently on the phone,
speaking in tones given to a lover.
She tries to ignore the whiskey man,
but he’s impatient.
drinking his whiskey,
trying to find love by denying its existence.