Taking the bus
Like some hobo homo junkie
Wondering which street
I could leave.
Sitting there in front of me,
Arms wrung around a pretty black girl
His shirt was a dress, hanging
Limp around his ankles
As he picked at the cuticles on his right hand.
Sixteen, fifteen maybe
And a mustache.
On his back was a knapsack;
But he was quiet just the same.
They talked but I couldn’t hear
And they spoke, but I didn’t listen.
I wanted to stare; he was cute,
In that adolescent way.
But if he was offended,
Would I be throwing shit at a boy
Grown up in gangs, known nothing
But how to hate how to hurt how to kill?
Should I pretend I don’t see them,
And make them a nothing at all?
So I chose the latter
And thought of an ocean cruise:
No way to escape, but no desire anyhow.
Then he pulled at his shirt, all around him,
And crossed his pale white arms
While I pulled at the cord, shaking,
And jumped off that rickety bus.