Bus Stop Woes

On the verge of tears
I don't know why
I seem to have lost my edge
but not my venom.

Two gay men are
sitting next to me
talking and both picking linto
off one’s jacket,
men friends,
and the girl crossing the street
doesn’t seem convinced
that the bus won't hit her.

I, too, have the eyes of someone
not yet convinced, not yet.
My mother warned me
about running with scissors,
she never mentioned
running with fears.

I try to dance with Madonna
in my mind but my chest is tight.
It could be the dampness
hanging halfway through the skyscrapers
with “v” shapes everywhere,
it could be this city,
It could be me.
I cling to my bag, my portable player,
my bus transfer,
and my breath.

We stop.

Somehow, in some fashion
which I have yet to understand,
I am walking and I start to feel it,
being alive, being happy,
being in love and I stand
accused of glowing
on only five hours of rest
and a pair of aching lungs.

Somehow,
in some fashion
which I have yet
to understand.