[158]

Postcard From Bus 41

Five minutes later and I would have caught the 20. But this one
is here and the driver’s hot and my ticket punches downtown.

Highway and we move like neon through the line, bright and high
as false-colored gas. In the morning, we’ll sink into despair.

This is why streetlights look taller in the gloaming, their heads
bent in prayer, blessing us with wafers of dusted wings.

If you ask me where I’m going I’ll say interrobang. It’s a place
just off the highway between inverted question and scare quotes.

The exits spell out number transmissions, satellite locations, global
disasters, the locations of dead loved ones. I think I want

to get off, but this seat holds all my secrets now. I stuff
the turquoise button of my coat between the folds

of false leather, wipe my fingerprints on the silvered pole.
My stockings are torn with forgiveness, but only at the crotch.

Every night my knees taste of asphalt and glass. We’ve gone
beyond the final stop. I shoulder my promises and tug

up my skirt. There’s an emergency here somewhere.
Or maybe just a window asking for a push.

~

Back of the Envelope

Image taken with iPhone in downtown Seattle.
Words written at Jewel Box.
Ears On Glen Hansard and Bat for Lashes
Time Taken 5 minutes
Brain On Fringe. Sex toys. Geek Love.

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This entry was published on July 2, 2012 at 11:36 am and is filed under June, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

4 thoughts on “[158]

  1. Helluva line:

    My stockings are torn with forgiveness, but only at the crotch

  2. “My stockings are torn with forgiveness, but only at the crotch.

    Every night my knees taste of asphalt and glass” <– brilliant.

  3. Thank you so much!

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