Balloon Skin | Steve Denehan

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.