In Transit

I met a man who wrote poetry on buses.
Not in magic marker on seat backs
or spray-paint on ceilings.
In a dog-eared notebook he inscribed letters so tiny
the bobbing heads could not eavesdrop on his journey.
Once, he said, he’d travelled all the way
to Paris, France, without looking up.
He planned to travel to Paris, Texas one day
but feared America too vast a country for such a small pen.
If the ink ran out how would he find his way home?