NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Nine

A bus could be the ideal place to write
if not alone, if searching for a nook
to hide yourself, invisible in sight.
This rolling pot, you scribble while it cooks.
Standing stamped of leather jackets crowd.
Kids wave outside to bikers in the lead.
Wheelchaired revels, in full recline, laughs loud
as hurried huddled stare outside to read,
search streets for signs, a saving beacon glow
of final destination in their sights,
college tourists pretend they already know
the location of every sensory delight.
There is a poem in every stop you hit.
Sometimes it's caught (this sonnet isn't it).