I think the bus ride made it more deadbeat,
or maybe the air brakes provided downbeat each stop –
each time someone tripped the ripcord and let go the ring
and the driver would pull his lever to release the doors to allow the exit
late in the evenings when day was just about done save for the last strong glow
of orange sun atop rooftops and spires, where the harsher shadows would never dare
to alight, where early dreamers could already be seen floating on air
souls akimbo bathing in aqueducts of cool breeze, brisk wind really
whipping about, inverting – sault-somering freefall
down to the street below to the windshields
of city buses toting us home to the love.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 