observations from the back of a bus
Dingy smog-colored clouds cling about freshly constructed high-rises.
Heaven is the color grey. Spell it with an e.
Billboards forewarn drivers of the dangers of alcohol
Consumption while operating a vehicle.
Would that there could be some correct prepositional usage.
A mini-cathedral is home to a school and rehab center.
Even on this bus, the pungent odor of a fresh coat of paint invades
My nostrils. The taupe masks the near ritualistic gang markings
That adorned its outer walls only last week.
The ride takes me through one of several ethnic microcosms in this city
And as the doors open at the next stop, in wafts the spicy earnestness
Of early-prepared jerk.
I would rather not guess what animal died to make this meal.
The clouds blacken the sun, and with it
The joy of schoolchildren. The conversations of one pair
Belies impending truancy. Don’t get arrested, kids.
Just before the bus turns out of Little Haiti and into Wynwood,
On walks a young man, from the retirement community bus stop,
Blasting rap music from a shoulder-top boom-box, circa 1987.
Hey, I like Timbaland, too.
The warehouses have come into view. At the marble-cutting company,
The grinding of stone on stone leaks in through the bus’s closed doors.
The McCarthur Dairy trucks, that have been running since 4 am,
Return to the plant and cut off our bus.
Auto-repair shops roll out blasted ’92 Camrys
Looking worse than they did when they got there.
The coin laundry up ahead, across from art gallery number 1,
Is clearly invested in the color peach.
Driving under the first overpass, the posts are
Alive, with octopi and squid of varying species.
The best part of my ride? Dracula Video Rentals.
I can see downtown over the next causeway.
