hostage
on the bus I pluck poems from street debris
the
road ripples in each driver’s wake
concrete
waves lap against each tire
beating
for the pavement’s heart
ba-bum
ba-bum, ba-bum ba-bum
I
am tossed in clusters of passengers, unbound
and
abandoned, eyes locked as I sway, the empty body
is
a container,
the container is whistling
from
the smallest crack in the frame to rattle
like
grandpa’s mint tin by the drivers seat
permission
to open the container
to
take and to close with breathless aspirations
to
not disrupt the eye of any other controller
a
rider who watches you or a driver, stiff
at
the wheel I whisk past
to
pour out on the street
assembling
on my feet
the
heels slam in
combat
I
storm sidewalks drilling forward
anger
is one remaining act of power
a
firm walk isn’t running away, a pulsing
stride
never looks uncertain, it implies
focus,
strong intentions are a costume
a
cloak which makes men stop noticing you
repulsed
by femme faces which focus or scowl
they
skip stiff women for the sweet genteel
women
who bruise like softened fruit.
Brisk
and severe, I walk going nowhere.
I
walk to hear my anger hit the pavement, to snap
twigs
and clear paths I race to pluck each street
out
of another victims future poems
my
holed soles hide unnoticed, until rain starts to fall
and
quicker than the drops can soak into my canvass shoes,
my
soles already draw standing water from the street.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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