Catch

An old man with fake teeth waits beside me for

The bus to pull in, scraping to a sudden stop.

My phone slides easily into my pocket,

But my hand catches pulling out my change.

We move to worn bus seats sticky with gum and

The bus begins bumping forward, uncertain its course.

Unease becomes discomfort, nausea follows.

Stomachs drum around, crashing like waves on bone walls.

And old men with fake teeth fight to keep it down.

His mouth hangs opens and suddenly

 I know what he had for dinner last night.