On the night bus, I daydream.
I look into darknes throughreflections of riders. Out
there my mind wades in fog
on a muddy hillock, fearful
of hooves & the smell of marrow.
Turning from this,
I come back to the life of
the night bus, which calls to mind
a casino: well lighted, solemn,
ceaseless motion; shards of noise
and paper; tiny bells far off; fear
and weariness known by their
disguises: the effort of faces
to look placid, to glance only when
the other glances at another. Sweat
and minutes gather in muggy silence.
The night bus lights itself up
from inside like a grape.
The driver behind his curtain
is deaf to confessions, especially
to those of honest poverty. He
spits the name of my Wagenhalt
into an acid intercom,
opens darkness for me to enter.
After the sinister hiss of pneumatic
doors, after the last steel step,
I sniff the fog for spore of violence.
hans ostrom
