Inside the bus

monday poem 1

The rising sun hits me in the eye
on the bus to work—
something else to make me wonder
if I am paid enough.
The beauty of the morning
reminds me too much of suffering—
of pain for the innocent,
of loss of the irreplaceable
that dissolves my equanimity.
I face the brightness without panic
thinking of my wife at home
who prepares for her day with leisure
not yet extinguished by a schedule.