My crammed bag manages to
squeeze past by the rest of the
passengers, their eyes catch
mine in their territorial gaze,
As if I shouldn’t sit next to them
or they will silently move their
legs away, hoping that I don’t
notice. You don’t own that f*cking
seat, my brain points out, I let
the thought pass by – why are
we territorial over things that we
don’t own? Why do we shy away from
things that are unknown?
Our sense of order is owned by
the bus seat. Tied to the material,
the proud decorative owner,
Once your ass heats the seat up,
you’ll leave your owner’s warmth
as you leave at the next bus stop,
You’ll clamber off like a penguin on
a slippery bowling alley, waddling away
from your beloved seat.
Instantly, I move and sit in your seat.
Now, it’s my f*cking seat.