The poem dances over my head
Evoking the smell of cumin and cornmeal
But the dude next to me
Smells of his own urine,
His skin leathered,
Perhaps from sleeping in it.
It sings the beauty of an unknown tongue;
His words, too, are incomprehensible,
To myself and to him, but rhythmic,
And regular with the pulse of cursing.
My pastor doesn’t collect fares at the door
And doesn’t romanticize public transit.
Based on a true story of a ride on the northbound 36 last week. I was reading “poetry on buses” (the poem quoted below) when “the dude” sat down next to me, reeking of his own excrement and muttering a steady stream of syllables that probably used to be curses when he thought anyone would bother to listen.
I don’t think public transit is a bad idea, but I’m under no illusions of it being able to usher in the blissful multicultural utopia some seem to ascribe to it. Being exposed to “all types” requires taking the good and the bad, the pleasant and the rank, the enticing and the repulsive.
This piece was inspired by:
MY EDUCATION
By Erin Bogarte
She brushes past my knees
eyes on the distant horizon
looking for an empty seat. The air that follows her is
cumin and cornmeal.
Across the aisle a woman
scarf low on her forehead
smiles at me and speaks to her friend
with beautiful words I do not understand.
Oh, pastor bus driver
I wouldn’t trade this sermon for any.
