ManicDDaily

Terminal–

For years, my default depiction of Hell,
at least Purgatory,
was Port Authority,
where buses slump, after a schlep
through the tunnel, into
unwalled stalls, exhaling exhaust
and the exhausted
like someone who has no business having hair,
letting their hair
down–

But, of late
I can no longer think of the place
as quite so damned.
This is not because
buses are now banned
from idling as they park
but because I am old enough to carry
more than a spark
of my death,

and long
for this tired flesh
to wheel through a life
more wholly my own,

which stretches one’s envelope
of the acceptable;
which allows even
for the possible enjoyment of corners careened (please, gently)
with gasoline, the funk
of Lucifer, as long as one is un-
deterred, detoured
without chore (and breathing
through the mouth–)

oh then I’d stop
with the idling (so,
I tell myself),
oh then (my short hair
on end), I could abide
quite a bit–

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Very much of a draft and strange poem that (believe or not) has gone through several iterations; posted belated to Real Toads Open Platform. The Port Authority I refer to is the NYC Port Authority Bus Terminal at 42nd Street and 8th Avenue.  (Thankfully, I normally travel by train!)