by Maxwell Rios-Klein

When I hop onto the 38 Geary headed downtown again,
For another century of living to work and working to live,
I stutter quietly while we all sit there in silence staring, longing for a friend,
I lie, and pretend, that I’m currently not depending on alcohol just to fend,
Off malicious content circulating through the tabs on my newly installed browser bend,
And I may be over 7 months sober, but my attitude and behavior, haven’t warmed up from being colder,
So now I’ve got a chip on my shoulder, and a swagger to act older,
To impress who? The people on this bus?
Perhaps it seems to me, no one wants to trust