Naked runs in her stocking,
like the blisters that line her lungs.
She does not seem to notice them;
Probably etched there late last night
by some clumsy come on;
She did not know if
she should play along.
The wet orange sandbags
pile high along Mercer Avenue,
spilling their guts onto the blacktop street,
like pumpkins left smashed on her front lawn,
She sits on the bus,
how she used to stay up late
chatting up customers
for a whiter plate or a greener
Now, she begins to worry
that she could miss her preferred stop
This bus, she notices,
is the EXPRESS.
She rushes forward,
stretching her able body across
seats intended for the crippled.
She chat ups the driver,
asking him what he likes to do for fun.
She would pour him more coffee, too,
if she were only on the job.
This, she learned, from her mother,
is how best to get what she wants.
What she wants today
is to not
have to walk
in the rain.