BALLOON SKIN

They sit in front of me

the atmosphere on the bus tightens

the leader, in my line of vision just a few feet away

he moves, they move, in staccato

like rodents

heads clicking left and right by tiny degrees

quicker than mine ever could

his face, home to plenty of steel

proof of his courage

his currency

his hand reaches back and grabs the back of his seat

inches from me, covered in tattoos

his forename forever painted upon his wrist

to know him

his name, my name