12

I get on the 12 bus and
it takes my blinders a good 15
minutes of people watching
before my breathing gears down to
an unconcerned pace

They are all here
the misanthropic
the bums
the tired-dead working overtime
to pinch a simple car out of life.
The children of welfare
guttersnipes standing in the
aisle when they shouldn’t be standing

I saw a small girl with
flaxseed ringlets Ping Pong
off the padded seat edges
the hard corners
and onto the floor when
the bus accelerated.
The girl had a little spot on
her scalp when she started wailing.
It wasn’t blood-flow but it
was a spot. It was red. She was
pulling at her mother’s arm sleeves
still ignored when the bus
stopped and someone got on
with a puppy.
A puppy got on and she stopped
screaming for enormous eyes

I get on the 12 bus to read
but it takes my blood
15 minutes to
operate with viscosity

I read here on the 12 because I fear my home.
My home doesn’t let me read.
Its maw speaks of bills
and improperly filled out
job applications and oral-interview bumbles
my uninspired tongue
food that isn’t in the fridge and
rent and heat and starslack

In homelife
I walk into the homemaw
apart from the world
I draw a bath in
the chipped clawtub.
I stare through every little thing
that is buzzing.
I sink in the water and I think
Christ, this limpid stuff
can’t possibly be as hot as it feels
and I wait and grit
and try not to move until it isn’t
until it doesn’t

I get on the 12 bus because it
runs well over a 1000 toy blocks.
It seems I’m always down to
the last 20 dollars of my name
and from the bus driver I can inquire
about a hitch and a transfer slip
for 2.25 even. I can ride for over
4 hours, then back. But it takes me
a good 15 minutes before
my bowels are unconcerned
enough to sag

I open my book or newspaper
and unscrew the pint of
Dark Eyes that cost me
11.49 because I went to
the wrong liquor store. I
couldn’t find it in me to
make a few more blocks and save a few more bucks.
I will regret this decision retroactively like everything else
no wisdom in the rue.
I am furtive with the bottle
but I don’t feel embarrassed or ashamed

I get on the 12 bus and I can
breathe because my left over
6.26 is on the plus side of things.
I have everywhere to go, I can
read victimless books of my own choosing

I can read outdated newspapers and
feel like I’m still an item of it.
My drive-in screen is still
superimposed on an
almost azure sky
and the edges are feathered
and mean nothing.
I drink because I am
afraid and I am
terrified with shakes that
so few people
imbibe in the constant motions

I
am
on
the
plus.

I am on the plus with all this
and I am not alone with myself.