Bus, The Bird
I'm twenty three and watching buses drive past.
I like the buses, the need for individual people to get places in groups. Before there were trolleys and horses on this street. There has always been the same need, the same incentive. And the bus—more than the car—is a symbol of freedom. It's more accessible, less glamorous. Buses are a reminder that there public places to go and public ways to interact.
In this way too, they're different from the subways which shuttle us underground and out of sight. Buses have greater reach: beyond the station and the temptation to only drive between the store, home, and work.
The designs on the buses already look dated. Their white bodies crossed with burgundy and clementine stripes. Some wave like a Pepsi logo. They probably are dated; fashion moves faster than traffic, and races compared to funding.
Used horses get old fast.
So do the queers.
I'm twenty-three and have a conspicuous patch of gray hair like my mother at fifty. A little bird with matted feathers lands on the table. She looks like she's still wet, like her egg fell from the nest and by some miracle she survived fully formed. What happened to you little coffee-bean? She's a little brazen. She flits gently toward my breakfast.