public in transport

You take it running
The M 13 is artery and vein
Home, garden, tea
stolen toilet paper from
convention space mid route.

The M 13 has a heart beside the numbers
Painted red, most likely.
Five men in the driving cabin, one driving
Two reading a paper,
One yelling the stops
One sitting in his lap.

One woman in window seat
Turns from breeze and gestures with her arm

A handspan from elbow
Her forearm bones in high relief
Take quarter circle turn
Bone meets bone improbably
Blue against her brown, tattooed numbers

We watch the milk stands,
Carts of grapes and wedding lights
A bus above it all


In Bombay the trains breathe
Sighing gently dripping people
Sitting knee to standing knee.
One women in the middle
Sways alarmed. Quiet face
Not joking in this world
Of women before dinner.
One hand overhead
Grips rail and single cauliflower
White against the din.

The seven taxi cabs of DC

Georgetown bar has green beer
Not on St. Patrick’s day
Tasting of water and full of
Fresh-faced boys with salmon shorts
And blue polo shoulders.
Sweet lonely gay boy sits beside
Tall girl in expensive, ugly dress.

How many balls are they coming from,
We ask ourselves.

2 am in the streets
String of cabs drop them off
First cab won’t unlock his door.
Where are you going, he asks.
Where are you going.
I turn around and walk away.

Second one opens his door
Says he won’t take me.
Slow second pass. I’m not sure
You’re allowed to do that, I say.

His car is running hot, he points.
Don’t you drive? 94828 is his tag.
If you see him in the street, tell him
He does not poo gold.

Third taxi takes me in and nods.
Sliding over, I find some girl with the
brain power of a Roomba has left everything
on the seat. I hand keys, card, licence
to the driver. He apologizes as I get out
He turns around to find her.

Fifth cab just behind the fourth
won’t unlock the door. I have a pick up,
he says. I cross the street and stand
On the lighted stretch just off the bridge.
Thinking of how I ride to work
Every day this way, free and powerful
On my bike beating buses up the hill.

Sixth cab opens his door and I sit down.
Same guy as the fifth! You had a pick up
Says me. I’ll drop you closer for free, says he.
Out I get and almost out loud tell the world
I am too old for this.
Suddenly thankful in my weary cells
To not be too drunk, and to have known
Greater taxi driving assholes than he.

Seventh cab this afternoon
All my worldly (three month) goods
waiting in the front room. Won’t pull over
to the curb, asks just how much stuff
I’m talking about. A lot, I nod,
But all packed up nicely.
No trouble at all.
“My laundry is still in my trunk.
God bless you.” And on he drives
into darkening sky of storm.