Albuquerque Public Transit: Haiku For Spring

Pool of blood on seat.
No explanation. Welcome
to ABQ Ride.

Woman pulls out comb
to scratch her open face sores.
So mesmerizing.

Man asks for water.
Takes swig, coughs for ten minutes.
Hah! It was vodka.

Man recounts story:
kidnapped by cartel and saved
by God. What the fuck.

Midnight on payday.
Packed bus. Transit cop. Weird smell.
Don’t go to the back.

Man, post-funeral,
given stranger’s platitudes,
sobs even harder.

This bus doesn’t run
on Sundays. Time takes us all.
It’s windy as shit.

Same 90s punk kid
in bus, train, streets, fevered dreams.
Where, what, why? Matrix? 

Bus suddenly stops.
Used syringe rolls down grayish aisle.
O, Albuquerque.

In hospital gown,
woman with back scars sits down.
They’re both old and new.

 

Photo via busboy4/flickr.

Rebecca Parson is a poet and freelance copywriter.

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