Saint Agnes On The Bus

 

On a bus in the city

on a slush-spattered morning

St. Agnes rode quiet to her grave.

Her sister was praying

her ear buds were playing

a song that was slow, sad, and brave.

The driver was sleeping

on a cushion of roses

and the wheel was a garland of sand

St. Agnes was pure

as few ever can be

mending wounds with a gold rubber band.

On the streets there were dogs

and they spoke of a healing

that cures every creature entire

St. Agnes is holy

and her sister is humbled

by the cost such devotion requires.

The bus turned to ashes

and the souls of the riders

had to carry all the things they must learn

St. Agnes beheaded

her sister lamented

that glory, to be sweet, must be stern.

_____________

Handsome

 Nobody thought he was handsome except for me,

the sharp-elbowed stick girl with the camera around her neck.

Always, he would show up on the street early,

a midnight cat sliding in on private grooves, to sit and wait

on the curb for the other workmen and the Jonah bus 

that swallowed them away.

If I could've, I'd have built him a church,

with Host of egg sandwich and coffee black or white.

I'd swear I saw him take out a rosary one diesel-rattle dawn

and it was strung with candy skulls and baseballs.

I imagined his prayers were colorful foreigners wandering 

in warehouse downriver drab Detroit, hated by strangers, loved by God.

After an absence, getting off gin and bad poetry,

I returned to find him gone, the bus stop shifted, the lone tree down.

The starlings had lost their home, me my jones,

and my camera stayed empty for a year after that, like an unfed stray.

I asked a girlfriend once, "Remember that guy, the different one

we used to see waiting?" Ugh, she said, that one. 

Like I said, only I thought he was handsome, like rain, 

like new work boots pawned.

_______

 for Word Garden Word List--Dave Kelly.

Attraction

 WordCrafter word list: Property/ Bizarre / Mercury / Melancholy / Indigo / Light / Languish / Purity / Thirst

Purity may be found

secreted behind that borrowed rib

a little southwest of the heart.

It uses serrated light

from the #39 bus,

its lit numbers visible only to those bleeding.

Mercury stepped on your kindness

and pawned his pride

for three dollars and a rolled bandage.

Melancholy Jane saw it all,

handed the driver a bible

full of indigo blues and lighter fluid,

Said, "Home, James,"

in your voice she had recorded under her tongue

like a password.

I hid purity in my messenger bag,

an inherited property, a ball and chain

made from beer tabs and lipstick.

All I want now is to languish famously,

pull poems out of top hats

and remember the bizarre attraction

you keep by the roadside

for marks and suckers

you turn to perfection on the wheel of your kiss.

_______

Lioness On The Bus

There is a lioness on the bus.
She may want a transfer
if her needs lie elsewhere.

Passengers speculate as to how she arrived.
"On four legs," says some sk8ter dude.
He is now Swami of the 7th Avenue Line.

There is a lioness on the bus.
Nobody tries to perv her. 
She could chase down the passing bicyclist
but she can't open the window. 

If you see a lioness on the bus, it might be her.
She is pregnant. Offer her your seat.

Her eyes are golden. 
Her favorite poet is Lorca.
She wishes the signal bell were more musical,

and that it could be night.
_______

poem #8 of my 39 poems in 39 days.