Terry Savoie

Muscling my way onto the cross-town bus
      & then pushed further & further back
down the aisle by a crush of riders boarding behind me
      as an afternoon storm opens up & everyone's
desperate to make it in to escape the rain
      although some are already soaking wet & angry

I see the bus's half windows, opened to let in the faintest
      possibility of a breeze on that blistering August
afternoon, now welcome in a torrent of rain
      so that those lucky ones with a seat are quickly getting
wet before the windows are snapped back shut, shutting out
      both the rain & any possibility of fresh air whatsoever.

One block further on, we pick up a pregnant woman
      who's dragging two screamers behind her as all
three squeeze in against the legs of a factory worker just
      who must've just got off his shift, a black lunch pail
tucked under his arm while he holds tightly to the strap above.
      Everyone's wet to the bone & pushing & back & back further

into the now brightly lit belly of the bus, the sky overhead
      an ominously deadened black & all are dripping but a lucky
one who insists on flapping her oversized umbrella in & out
      & in again as is her right in whatever space's available
in the aisle. Everyone stares dead ahead pretending those pressing
      in against them don't exist while we seriously contemplate

our stoic reflections mirrored in the bus windows. A few hapless
      souls clutch the leather straps overhead for dear life
as the bus lurches ahead, then stops, then lurches
      again, seemingly forever behind schedule.
The street lights sputter on & off over wet sidewalks
      reflecting storefront neon signs & Twiggy-thin mannequins

in two-piece bikinis, white wedding gowns & then a red raincoat in
      the corner shop, a raincoat that's best suited for the girl with
her giant, golden-hoop earrings who stands at the next corner
      without an umbrella or raincoat, thoroughly soaked,
but nonchalantly waiting for the red light to change.

      She glances up & spots me looking
down on her. She has the stuff of desire painted
      on her face in dripping mascara & deep-red lipstick.
Intoxicating she is as she gives her Siren come-hither look up
      to me, but far too late; the bus continues pushing on schedule.

She waves, knowing I'm too far away. But, at 15, all I am capable
      of is a feeble, sheepish smile she'll neither see nor remember.