I get on the bus around twelve and look
at the other heads and wonder what if
Melville had written Moby-Dick about us
and not whale-hunters.
This eternal movement of passing,
men stepping on and off and on,
has to be the ultimate summation
But where is the passionate captain–
is he the one moving us to stops?
Is he the older man scanning a tabloid,
or the lonesome child screeching?
And where are the untamed jaws
of a deformed god? Waiting for us
at the next stop–and what of me?
This weary congregation
must reflect something
Finally, the bus stops. I walk a block
to Taco Bell and bite into a shell–
its gooey innards mean more now
than any large thing.