When I stared out at the road
watching the bus accelerate and leave -
it wasn't my bus, again -
I wondered to you if people in buses ever felt
like they'd lost their identities
in the swirl of proletarian bus-taking humanity.

You stared at me,
unable to break the rice curtain
the wall dividing my world from yours.

Later, you stared out at the same road
watching the people left behind as the bus accelerated and left -
it wasn't their bus, again -
you wondered to me if people who couldn't pay to ride in cars
ever thought about why they were that way
trapped as proletarians; unable to afford an identity.

At least we both agreed on something, you said;
that one day, we would not need to ride in buses
when we were liberated from the poverty of youth.

But are shared dreams enough for a friendship?