by Isi Unikowski

An announcement that buses have replaced trains for the evening rush hour
has become a soundtrack for the city’s growing pains.
A guy in hi-viz redirects bewildered passengers
decanted in the drizzle onto the pavement’s terra incognita:
tchicking from the side of his mouth to show regret
that it’s the wrong bus, or the bus didn’t show up,
looking conspiratorially around to impart a baritone confidence
about the clowns in head office,
looking over his glasses to convey authority, help the message along.
From my seat on the old bus dragooned into service
I’m looking down at his grey tonsure,
afternoon light seeping into the bark of his weatherbeaten neck.
He comforts lost passengers as they implore him with their eyes
tote bags emblazoned with logos that should have been beside them
on the train’s brightly patterned, faux-velvet seats,
mere encumbrances now as they’re crowded together
like aristocrats fleeing Brumaire. I’m a little envious: how
at home he seems, a lighthouse
against which the currents of public transport break with flimsy spray.
How fortunate he seems in his work
as are all those whose materials leap to their hand,
whose hand teaches them the task,
whose task offers up its grain to be found and followed.