A Bus Ride
A Brooklyn bus is always the same,
Bubblegum under seats,
Crossed legs blonde in front of you
Reading, smiling
He's drinking beer from a can,
And scratching his neck.
She's pushing her way to the back of the bus,
Her hair is red
curly
her child is 9 months old
When he gets off the bus, he walks right by me
He stutters when he mumbles excuse me
But he smells like curry and home
A bus in Brooklyn is perfume,
And cigarettes
And shame
And bagels
She plays music loud enough to hear
And clacks long nails on her phone
She's chewing bubblegum
And her hair smells like whiskey
He falls asleep on my shoulder,
My stop is next