City
Bus
On
a warm spring day, under a magically distorted sun,
I
was bitten by a jittery black squirrel,
The
sort of odd black squirrel sometimes seen
In
the trees and streets of New York City.
The
bite didn’t anger me, as it was obvious
That
the squirrel mistook a friendly gesture for danger.
Across
the avenue, a large gray bird was raping a smaller one;
At
least I believe it was a rape
Since
“no” does mean “no” after all,
And
though I couldn’t see the victim’s eyes that well,
I
detected nothing consensual, nothing flirtatious amid the flapping.
On
the sidewalk by a bank, the ordinary and extraordinary collide
When
a man without muscle tone and the stunner from the incense shop
Perform
an obviously open-mouthed kiss,
Shivering
despite the heat, or perhaps to spite the heat.
My
bus arrived, but without the usual driver;
I
wondered if this new driver, in a fit of rage or something similar,
Had
squeezed life from the body of the regular guy
With
those monster hands that sat mounted on the big wheel;
His
wide, sadistic grin was a direct contrast
To
the gloom of the riders as they stared glumly ahead.
I
took a couple of reluctant steps up to the entry door,
But
then hopped spryly back down to the curb,
All
in one motion like some weird little jig,
And
allowed bus, driver and passengers to roll on the hell away.
I
watched the local news intently that evening,
Plainly
expecting to hear a tale of tragedy on a city bus
But
instead heard only the inflated ego of the anchor,
Whose
junior college degree had been parlayed into a jackpot.
I
looked in the mirror hard that night
And
loved what I hated about myself.
Nathan Graham
Nathan is recently retired, and thus far his retirement has consisted of a LOT of naps. Since he is convinced that there must be more to retirement life than naps, he decided to write down some poems and stories. He is a pretty nice guy that likes to watch sports on television while eating nachos with a fork. He does not drink but doesn’t mind pretending...if there’s something in it for him. He has no publishing credits to his name. That’s not the end of the world, is it?