Beef stomachs honeycomb
in ivory effulgence
through plate-glass
as we await the
maculate, miraculous "C"
that turns ANAL STREET
into CANAL. That corner turned,
we arrive at a time when life
raises its ponderous thighs
from the beaded seat
(the better to avoid piles)
and lumbers to the
exitway, where a wheelchair is
waiting with an incontinent beggar,
beside him a shopping bag
from a spiffy emporium
on which a hydrocephalic
Dickens pines.
To bless the fruit of
our maternal viscera, a driver
must unlock the hips
and scorn caesarians,
if not Caesar himself.
His stroll is resigned, with
a knowlege that flesh is grass,
and all who walk will
roll or drop one day.
The striped blue thigh's solidity
that brushes us by,
mere maya not harder than the fare box,
or even the chair that rises
to our circle. He grunts and
returns in triumph ; he is the
"operator", according to the MTA ;
he makes no change ;
nor may we speak to him,
though he excises our way.

poem