The bookbag leans
on the aluminum column.
The column is blurry,
someone cleans it
only when their are inspections.
The bookbag has been sitting
collecting the sounds
that leave the Staten Island Ferry
by foot,
for God knows how long.
When you get off,
everyone looks ahead,
but out of the corners
an entire black sea of iris'
rotates to the aluminum column.
It might be a bomb.
The girl behind the Ms. Anne's counter
is skinny almost,
but her *** is too big,
almost.
Munching on the semi-soft pretzel,
you think about empty calories
and the corners of your mouth get sticky.
The Ferry won't be back,
for another thirty or so
minutes.
Somebody takes out a guitar,
and starts playing
a little Dylan. People
form a circle around him.
This is the American Pow-wow.
You reach in your breastpocket
for the Marlboros,
but you can't smoke here,
and an official looking person
squints at you,
just to drive the point home.
******* smoking laws,
some places just feel good.
This place with all it's ringy sounds,
like the guitar,
and phones beeping with texts
and babies,
deep fathers,
and high mothers.
Just to puff and puff
and push that sugar down
with nicotine would really
up this feeling of comradery.
A guy with a gold-plated shield
on his breastpocket and a blue-button down.
Walks over to the bag.
The iris' move,
people keep talking but
they're just saying words
to make it look like they're talking.
By the time the ferry
rings in baritone,
the bag is gone;
the column is still blurry;
the man is still playing his guitar,
but there's an emptiness.
