Street Shower
I hope this bus doesn’t crash; rain
greases the tires like WD-40 puddles
on a rusted door hinge, an accident looming
with every late brake. Relaxing in a chair
eyes flicker shut, screeches from tires
echo on crunching metal,
glass collapses on the rough gray asphalt, scatters
amongst every seat; a collage
of red droplets and pink scabs
on my forearm.
As I pick the shards
that nicked my bones
and scooped my marrow, I notice
the empty seats; garnet cushions stained scarlet,
taste of iron on my tongue; petrified looks
on several wan faces, though their eyes look almost lonely,
seeming to yearn, maybe a goodbye, or another breath
to scream for help; lump in the throat
can’t be gulped away, choke
on engine fumes as I stumble
out the front window, staring back at
what is now a Dali painting; melting
frames welded to the ground. I fix my wrinkled
shirt, pull up the shreds of my pant legs, and
I look into the shadow filled sky; rain
washes over me, maroon puddles
at my ankles.