METRO(polis): 105

I might blow the whole pot of my morning commute on this one transfer.
Might spot bus as my Expo car pulls up to the stop at La Cienega
and biff the tempo of the movement, might turn the corner as the 105
is already onto its next gesture, next angina of time compounded location.

The 105 swoops through Coliseum to MLK to hook up with Crenshaw
and thus Vernon through Santa Rosalia Drive, a nest of Black communities
hanging on by scruff of the starch in uniforms and scrubs and stiff walks
in purple dawn day after day after day for what (to be pushed out to Lancaster?)

I’ve caught the jackpot connect and avoided the squinty wait in pure sun fuckery
on Venice smack dab in front of the Keiser Wellness Fortress with the overpass
of the Ten impudently whizzing blurs past the offramp of the West Ten a los pedos
a garrison of homeless centurions hidden by the hungry concrete shadow.

Today, the 105 unclenches pneumatics and exhales into idle, and I enter the silent
wagon of thought this bus represents in all the quadrants barreling clean periphery
down La Cienega from Sunset to Rodeo then vectors left on Vernon and doesn’t heel
until the Long Beach Blue. I am on one line thinking about the trajectory of another line.

I’m on the eastbound Expo because I don’t always take the 733 to Cadillac;
sometimes, I might debark Robertson, and Expo-line it to La Cienega and Jeff.
whoop down four flights of steps like a deranged ibis before sprinting to foot
of self-storage galpones and the non-descript front of a See’s.