Today I realized that no matter how poetic it seems, crying in public is probably the least poetic thing you could possibly do. I’ve always had these visions of perfectly formed tears rolling in orderly fashions down a non-blotchy, not red face. That one would blink the tears out of their eyes, only to find that a kind and dashing stranger has either sat down next to them to inquire after their well-being or offered a tissue for relief. The reality is much different. The reality is an amount of liquid you can’t control streaming in a disorderly fashion from both nose and eyes. Being squished up against a dirty and suspiciously wet window in the back, corner seat of a public bus. Its having all the toothless grandpas peering at you face each time you look up and the bedazzled Dominican grandmas ruthlessly searching the crowd for the anonymous nose sniffer. And then ta piercing yet surprisingly gentle stare when they see that it is you. It is the somewhat attractive yet short and out of shape strangers standing somewhat leeringly over your bench yet never making eye contact and then moving away. It’s all of this and more. Perhaps it is a poem, because hey, those don’t have to rhyme anymore.