How contained is a man in a bus

squared squeezed
blond beauty delineated
the essential life of the thing
sanitized by glass.
Where is the wind, the highblown
blue?  There are straight
lines, the seat in front
all that life regularized
made uniform when a
single human is so vast
so chaotic so unique it can never be
seen from the straight line.
He should get off, walk out on
such standardization
let his hair blow in the wind
refuse to be pinned to his 
all neat, all groomed.
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