TTC
“Don’t you f***ing touch me, bro!”
A man loses it and blasts out a startling parting word that perfectly defines all of us riding the bus.
in the midst of intense silence
with a breeze of politeness,
the packed bus moves like
a promising chariot about
to win the race…
eyes drop, catching up
after the bustling feet and arms
fighting to end the day
as slaves like me long for
while daydreaming…
… daydreaming of a hot meal…
being served at home…
a home that will never be mine
to ever own.
it’s a retreat… even a treat…
to have a seat and bask in
a little sweet of rest.
… all of a sudden…
“Don’t you f***ing touch me, bro!”
an angry man blasts,
disturbing the silence,
“Don’t you f***ing touch me!”
a hostile exchange erupts between two men;
the ‘angry and the ‘defensive’ whose
suppressed voice chills off like a
stubborn child without an ounce of fear…
no one dares to turn their heads,
no one dares to even take a breath,
doom scrolling on phones,
lots of fast doom scrolling,
turning up headset volumes,
squinting at nowhere,
ruminating about whatnots,
pretending that it’s all okay…
while the field around me
vibrates… though defiant
and most of all, stoic…
towards the end, the angry man proclaims,
“You’re a f***ing slave, bro! You’re just a
f***ing slave!”
He then jumps off at the next stop with
a parting word, “Slave!”
A South Asian woman turns to her
seat mate, with a contemptuous smirk.
… and we’re back again…
To the intense silence.
With the breeze of politeness.
Until the bus wins the race.
For the rest of us…
… to get home…
wearing peaceful faces.
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