Getting Anxious

For some poetry, that is.

It's been awhile since I've written in stanzas.

I shared a few pieces with the boyfriend, who called me "skilled."  He said, "Because I don't believe in talent.  A skill is something you actually work for."

And I liked that.

"You have a unique voice," he added.

And I liked that, too.

...

Passenger

The heat gets to me always. 

I’m traveling to and from on the No. 40 Bus—

back home and to work—and to back again. 

Sticky salt lick backs and asses stuck

to molded plastic seats made in interesting blue. 

Blue patented by the Bus Company. 

Blue like acid sunrise—and the engine breaks. 

Aluminum frames rattle and passengers

refuse to look through.  Nothing interesting

about routine:  only wise to just get through the day. 

I clutch my purse between my knees,

a cool touch—not long enough—and breathe. 

The engine breaks again; I touch shoulders forcibly

with a mid-aged man, suited to his starched collar neck,

red noose in a Winsor knot. 

He’s too ashamed to take his jacket off,

his polyester blend pants fucking my thigh. 

I remove my purse to my lap. 

He wipes wet hands on his sleeves, like an extra skin

that shines.  The engine breaks again;

I’m pushed against fiberglass and more plastic. 

The Suit looks at me apologetically

before getting off.  Never mind straightening

my skirt.  I won’t be seeing him again.

Poem added to "Love Sick Blood Moan"