Transit Authority #021

“Man, what'd ya think about them chicken and waffles?”

”Waffles were okay, the chicken was shit-”

”It was garbage. That biscuits and gravy-”

”It was shit-”

”It was garbage. You know, he's made some good breakfasts in his day, when he was alone. It was good, him being himself. But this-”

”I still ate it.”

Transit Authority #017

Hat Colors on September 11th, 2019:

  • Black: 17

  • Red: 4

  • Tan: 4

  • Blue: 15

  • Yellow: 2

  • Brown: 1

  • White: 9

  • Purple: 1

  • Pink: 3

  • Black/Camo mix: 3

  • Silver: 1

  • Gray: 2

  • Blue/Tan mix: 1

Transit Authority #014

“Don’t let the devil hold you back.

You got six days of the week to do what you want, but come Sunday…

You wanna know what’s wrong with you? The devil’s got ahold of you, that’s what. Believe that!”

Transit Authority #013

“You wanna sit down, baby?”

”No, thanks, I’m getting off next.”

“Okay then. Let it be known that a Puerto Rican offered a black woman a sit-down.”

…

“I love my Latin music, baby.”

Transit Authority #012

The elevated train, roaring on the elevated track in the air mildly rarified,
the boxy cars three cuboids each, full of individuals in personal cubicles,
wide riders on either side of a seat-edge glider,
the cars bookended front and back with cubbies private enough for pissing,
for filling back up on hooch and beer,
oblong enough for precious bicycles and full slouches with beaten shoes in the gangway,
everyone alone but looking,

no higher density of stolen glances in the city,

innocuous and thoughtful and I wonder if anyone wants to go where they're going in

biznis cajh,

edging between hip and professional, same game same train same time tomorrow same pain,
gutted and drained back in the abattoir, huskin’ it and hauling the carcass back to the farm,
back to the kitchen where between the cold fridge and hot stove we get that

meat blown back onto our bones

for the harvest, tomorrow's sharp-edge punch card claiming the first cut,
hewing and hemming but to get there we gotta slap that transit card on the turnstile,

and again for my friend,
that they too on the morrow can leave a little marrow on the charnel house floor,

clock in clock in baby, don't let that transit card expire,

and ride quiet and alone because we can be deeply thankful without a broadcast, without a celebration
just flying these banner ads with their word salad tossed by the design teams with fiberglass brand propaganda caught in my eyes and hair, on my fingertips and lips

for later, forever,

conjuring pocketbook twinges, greasy sock and bra dollars in the boxcar,
humping it in and curling out into the homes and gardens we, for whatever reason, leave by sunrise.

Transit Authority #011

A black nickel on the rubber, ringed in white. How long has it been there? When I was a kid we were so poor that I told myself the day would never come when I would pass up a penny on the sidewalk. I did the math and the money per hour wasn’t bad on penny retrieval. The black nickel ended up with Hilario of the Peanut Butter Sandwich, gifted by a guardian angel just as much as the nickel was.

Somebody left this money, the phrase worked its way out of Hilario past all the city’s creosote, its dust and ash, past peanut butter on Wonder bread, and the black nickel was tucked away from the world awhile.

Transit Authority #010

A loud banging downstairs: as if a storm cellar door were being slammed, as if there was a storm cellar on the block.

Watching out the back window: voices on the pavement and into the frame rolls with a wooden bang the armrest, the frame and legs of the cheapest glorified platform of a couch, a plywood bench wrapped in black, and end-over-end with diminishing bangs it is pushed to the alley.

Transit Authority #008

A man on his morning walk hacks and coughs, not with such force or such violence but with such dramatic fury that when a young family, a mother and her daughter and their little beagle, turn back in real concern, they witness him leaning over a metal fence into someone's yard, spitting shades of yellow and green onto their lawn.

Transit Authority #007

"You wanna sit down, baby?"

"No thanks, I'm getting off next."

"Okay then. Let it be known that a Puerto Rican offered a black woman a sit-down."

...

"I love my Latin music, baby."

Transit Authority #006

A man with a soul patch and calf socks edges into the street, with an eagle eye behind glasses for those glowing letters, "DAMEN 50", the sodium-orange eyebrow of every city bus.

Transit Authority #005

A kind woman in a wheelchair with a Polish accent.

A man who's pulled the cord too late, holding on and crying out to the driver, and between his fingers is the precisely rationed and yellowed long butt of a cigarette.

A young man with a freshly bandaged forearm.

A young woman with her hair up, making a bulbous peak in her hoodie hood.

B-cup bra on the pavement at the bus stop. This is my stop.