The Port Authority Poem

the woman in Walgreen's whose hands had butter
or something wet and not alive
who saw through her puddle of eggs
to the basin
it's wild murmurs
bruised saucers & cups with significant chips of struggle
floating in the fallacy of suds

her arms clipped
rattle as she twitches
mad as a goose
like anyone is
waiting for the bus
the animals waiting to be fed
and for no other reason
going crazy

or the black woman whose socks are slipping
her ankles like the skeletons of tiny birds
paces the floor like a peacock on fire
an experiment
something to do with electricity
a clinic
her hands frenzied
constantly explaining shoving protecting praying
her eyes reliving whatever it was
and though there are no tears she's crying

or the cowboy who can't exhale for fear
he'll lose a precious something that's irreplaceable
a rose
a lapel
his eyes full of buffalos

and me
the cyclops
the ticket
bound to express the corrupt geography of our bodies
bound for some reason with crossed laps
bound as spawning fish are
in the freak contrivance of language
the port authority
where no ships dock nor seas touch
the vibrating sand