Poem #8

Breakdown

The bus I’ve boarded is filled
with passengers whose mouths have
 
just closed after months of singing.
Little starfish, or cloves, punctuate
 
above their chins.  The driver breathes
and shifts heavily on his vinyl seat.
 
The first floating neon sign sputters on.
I feel I am a threat, an inappropriate
 
handkerchief.  The rubber-lipped doors
squeak when they close.  The bus motor
 
hums all wrong, like a wave rising out
of the sun’s afternoon shimmer.  This startles
 
the driver a little.  The passengers have done
their nightdance.  Their gods have answered
 
with a matte darkness, but it is not
in the sky.  It is in my throat.