Gnostics on a Bus

She gets up—

short running tights,

tight and a little too short.

She gets up,

walks past men barely present, staring

through the ceiling like it was an illusion,

men trying to escape the confines of the 99 B-line,

men deep in gnostic meditation, separating mind from body,

letting the former drift like a balloon on a blustery day,

while the later remains a shell on an overcrowded bus.

She gets up,

walks past with tight black smelling-salt:

eyes fall from the ceiling

from shoulders to waist to. . .

Men return to consciousness

minds remember their tether. 

Some regain composure quickly,

eyes bouncing up from baser instincts

to ads for burritos above windows;

others follow short tights to the exit,

savoring their embodiment for a moment

before returning to their mediations.