lost in transition

Sometimes bus stops mean so much – respite, isolation,
the prime urban motif, a snapshot of society lost in transition.
The business of waiting is lottery. Traffic is a series of long sighs –
this is what time looks like.

You forget how silent everybody really is. Their eyes jaywalking.
Here is an inbox of messages waiting to be deleted. Here,
the city’s irregular pulse. Here there is so much privacy.
Someone you know alights and passes without speaking.

That night you go home, sit with Coltrane and a hot brew.
Find it impossible to sleep. Wonder if you should log on

men, we're here on a mission

happy new year!
long time no see ah!
how's your son this year?
gongxifacai, wanshiluyi, xueyejinbu, shentijiankang
here's your ang bao.
xinniankuaile!
see you next year!