The opposite of knowing might be guessing

This man in front of me on the bus
has loud thoughts.
The kind of man
that would cut down a tree
so he could see nature better.
He was in jail, once.
For whatever.
For stealing copper wire and using it
to make deck furniture, maybe.
He beat someone,
stole their dress shoes,
he ate a cheeseburger
and drew circles with ketchup
on the tater tots
then left without paying.

With a voice of sandpaper
meeting a calloused, gloveless hand
splitting logs with an axe that's sharpened daily.
He dresses in brown.
Brown cap, brown socks and undershirts.
Somtimes yellow-stitched brown denim
nothing designer.
Mows large yards with Honda pushmowers,
pretending the plastic grass flap
was a salad shooter nourishing civilizations
beneath the blades of grass.
Tiny people dine
on browning iceberg lettuce
and slivers of cabbage
with no dressing.
The man looks forward.
Rests his head on the glass.
He stares at things fifty stories high
and when the bus sulks past,
glass turns into silver oceans of faces.