THE BUSES FR0M THE EAST

The churches come down on Clinton Street
The churches come down near Bailey
I observe the destruction of Christ
in the ruins of the East Side
at seven in the morning, on my way to work
You know, if the son of God
can’t make it here, who can?

Do not mistake me for Brad Pitt
Do not mistake me for Angelina Jolie
They know nothing about waiting
for the Clinton Street bus in the cold
with nothing in your pockets
but for the fare
and the same old suicidal road maps
tossed into the darkness and circles of snow

We are the ones, aren’t we?
We wait for your mouth everyday
as you look out the window
at the desolation of Laub International

We are the ones, aren’t we?
We thank you for your crazy lipstick
worn without effort each morning
adoring the night before the sun rose

We are the ones, aren’t we?
We wave at our fellow primates
as we go by the Buffalo Zoo
Our fellow inmates incarcerated
under the same glass that is between us

The crosses came down on Clinton Street
The crosses came down on Bailey
I watch you every morning
on the downtown bus
You wore a tiny crucifix for us
round your silver shoulders at dawn
And the sun rose like a red wafer for us
And communism was once again new
against the sky to the east for us


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