A Bus Poem Poem by robert dickerson

The subway is so foul somedays there is nothing to do
but take off your head and stow it in your bag
as I myself did this morning, boarding the L-
a technique learned from my friend Biff the bouncer,
and taking only a little practice to perfect:
the right hand planting a sharp rap aside the mandible
while the left draws the head up smartly by the topknot.

Head in the sack, held securely in the lap
one is spared the slings and arrows of the madding crowd;
the richly stained floorboard; the boogeyman scrawl
effacing the key; a lethal brace of babystrollers;
humorless faces fluoresced a mortal green
kneeding mounds of gum; riveted walls
akin (much akin) to the color of chicken-skin.

Catcheted so, much use can be made
of Time lost in profitless nursing of spleen-
Time to brush up on those German verbs;
rehearse the twelve causes of hypokalemia;
audit the collected organ works of Brahms;
Time to rethink the nicer implications
of the Henderson-Hasselbach equation;

or just lay your head back on the socks and relax
silently dozing, jarred to repose
by the oddly soporific, cat-song of the tracks-