Running for a Bus

written Spring 2003:

Running For a Bus

Who prizes nickel treasure more than I?
That which satisfies a slight desire for figs
creates extended longing when the palate
dries. Uncap a sigh, trigger the lens.
Recant that covenant with modest men
who never sullied names or sheets of white

kenaf. Those whistles in my head produce
a dirty laugh. No Cadillac? No skates?
I’m running for a bus to keep a date
with Old McCoy the Sailor, former pitchman
for Cartoon Classics on the UHF dial.
He keeps a pack of Tareytons under his hat.

The seaman knows I’d rather fight than bitch
about my lunar folly. He harpooned
me once before I left my native alleys,
but no one saw my bliss. They sent a powder
to cure me of the blight, and that’s the night
the last bus sent me here to lead attacks.