What makes the bus go? asked the man I’d been talking to, as he prepared but slowly to get off the bus. What makes the bus go? to mostly bored faces. Electricity, says one guy. No! Does anyone know? We rolled to a stop. The wires, said someone else. No! I’ll tell you. Art makes the bus go. Later, after cornering, the silent man with the coat made of stuffed animals smiles. Others mutter, Crazy. The city rattles by all these facades where lives might be, another man suddenly screams It’s my stop! And we do on a route visible only to him, lost in a daydream and caught unawares that the bus would soon pass into dangerous territory. You’ve got to pay attention: Keep Hands Clear: The city is indifferent – these are bus lines not leylines, traplines, songlines – don’t be so heretical, these don’t mean. For your safety, Please hold on.
Whatever then. This nest of ours holds thick
together with saliva, silkworm-worried
and strong. In TV there’s an agony
beyond us. The reality show I like
Is the one about sloths, a hour on Tuesday
When no one among us can move. What if I miss something, is the constant refrain
It’s the eighth season of MASH but the war won’t end.
Hey, it’s the ratings, stupid: eat your Kraft Dinner
With wieners mixed in, and think, think on the cheese
Not me. Hold thick together, grass and twigs,
Scraps of paper, grocery lists, all my crap poems.