This bus group is the meaning of bald
The younger riders cap themselves
In laundered reds
With small blue men playing
Traditional polo
We are all head-phoned
Or listening to the starved
Or staring (as windmills
Stare) through the thick
Windshield and the green
Blackness trapped inside it
Me, an Islander for one
More night while the Red
Sox are winning—
I am getting older—
Next to a man
Dressed in mold-tones
His stiff hair a canceled bonfire
Of oily flax
“Just a big bag full of blood”
Back home, the mice are getting braver
The kitchen smells like an abortion
And three months and the water bill
Are owed to men who own
And operate bars in the daytime
With infinite KENO slips
And lockless bathrooms
And we roll up
The glistering jail of bolts and
Cables the size of Easter baskets
“We’re pretty much flying” I
Say, in passing, to Sebastian, his eyes
Like two swaying calves
In the ceiling of the abattoir.
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