On a 4:30 greyhound
I’d find a route North
among rinds stuffed in seats,
between the windows passing
cargo trucks,
railroad tracks —
Smack.
Dab in Philadelphia.
I’ve driven through,
only on the golden roads to
college campuses,
heard of but seen
in a film of crystal pictures —
cream blue —
autumn leaves, fresh flowers,
soft winters.
But it’s summer on this sweaty bus.
Sweat,
gray seats and
rivulets of wet.