Thursday, August 13, 2015

restless and rustling

Damn.
Finally, I learn to look past the tired eyes,
the sagging thighs,
the earbuds,
stuck above the ears
and perched below
That Fucking Hat,
The city full of hustlers
is no longer sordid,
the city full of restless souls
is no longer depressing,
but, here,
on the 4am bus to Laguardia,
is finally something glorious.
And I know, with a sinking heart,
that I have finally found myself
in love.

The woman with the stringy ginger hair
alights right after the 33rd street Astoria stop,
She gingerly glances around the bus,
her eyes shyly darting
from face to face
and she seems to see all of us--
really see us.
She is too terrified to look at each face for too long.
I follow her gaze,
with trepidation,
wondering what I will see with her.

I look into the eyes of the men in the grey sport coats,
matching, unintentionally,
mirroring one another across the aisle,
and behind their exhaustion,
there is a majesty.

And the woman with a mesh shirt
and bleached overalls,
standing next to me,
rooted, like an oak,
to the shifting floor
of the bus's accordion joint
seems like a kindred spirit-
her rich black skin a film negative of mine-
and the slender man,
with the Adidas flat-brimmed hat,
and a nervous energy
pulling him out of his seat
at each stop,
has eyes that are alive.
Is this the airport?
Adidas man asks in half-Spanish and half English

There seems to be,
in each of them,
a deep and solemn dignity.
I can barely look into their faces:
their weary, guarded faces.
But their eyes are alive,
alive with the same fire
that burns inside mine.

Something searching,
something seeking,
a fire that's restless,
a fire that's yearning,
longing and pushing,
for something greater,
for something better that
the people still sleeping
in their Park Avenue penthouses
have forgotten to thirst for.
But we,
we are hungry for it,
we insomniac few,
we rag-tag band of strangers,
with eyes alive with the fire
of something better than living,
on the 4am bus to Laguardia

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