commute

the 3 groans to a stop
at jefferson & 9th  
takes a long drag of its e-cig caternary  
in front of the trauma center  
  
the collonade of passengers  
in the middle aisle  
parts    
   
and, between their sagged  
                                               shoulders  
glossy    
eyes and                              half-shut eyelids  
their bodies swaying  
waves coming ashore    
only to be    
dragged    
hissing  
back into the sea,  
   
steps through a 30-something moses parting the water  
back  
         arched  
                      forward  
and still 6 feet of sundried tomato skin  
clutching a paper solo cup  
his white shirt tinted cream like clouds    
at night    
a constellation of holes and frayed lines  
luminous in the shine of scabbed scar tissue    
   
underneath,  
he sits in a single chair  
leans  
          in  
like he's about to tell a secret  
       about why the moon's got so many craters  
       or how we all pay to get on but he rides free  
elbows on thighs,  
his arms roads full of red potholes  
and pinkish early graves  
the street quickly seeps into his body  
through the black fingernails  
that he uses to scratch his wrist    
         a thrombosed vein bulging there  
         like sewage pipes construction workers    
         down james accidentally    
                    laid to rest  
   
but he just looks around  
reads the people staring out the window  
         their minds already home cooking dinner  
         or buttoning their cuffs tomorrow morning  
lips pressed together smiling cheek to cheek  
like he's got it all figured out  
the whole 30 minutes down  
to james & 4th.