And Yet He Smiles

Holding onto the door’s bar,
half up in air, steps on stairs
he makes a life.
He babbles with a funny speech,
perhaps of his teeth,
chiselled by deep carmine
yet I see no scar upon his smile.

A knock to cease, another to go,
off the bus, or on the road
he holds their dear tote
and cracks a joke, “oh dear tote.”
The carmines get to work again;
he tears the tickets,
fussing over tens.
Then goes to sit
on a rod by the stairs,
sleeking his wimpy hair.
And the bus goes on.