Changing Selby

I don't mind riding the bus all that much, even if it is down Selby,

which I take all shortcuts and detours to avoid driving on,

because I can't shake the feeling that one day I'll die there

(and no one will hear me).

I keep myself busy enough, listening to The Ocean with a truthful smile, cleaning my fingernails,

changing the names of people and places in my poems, changing them back again; giving up writing for good.

Though I am not all that special, since I spend most of my time looking out the window,

looking for people and the bags that they carry. I'm obsessed with people's bags. I look for them everywhere.

I like pretending I know everything about a person from the bag they carry:

A neon-orange backpack; a sleek messenger bag too small to fit anything in;

a crumbling sack holding dozens of personal treasures; nothing but a wallet and a single key;

a grocery bag filled to the brim; a lovely bag that matches her eyes perfectly;

so you see I am obsessed by bags and the people who carry them.

So much so that one day I didn't notice that the bus hadn't moved for quite some time.

Judging by the hushed chatter, there seemed to be something in our way.

I craned my neck to witness a sinister-looking car with red-and-blue lights, blinking profusely.

There were two policeman outside the car, looking at something interesting on the sidewalk.

There were also two bikes laying forgotten in the grass; rather unnatural, I thought.

My neck hurt.

A fire truck tore its way down the road, lumbering past our rooted bus.

Not a minute later, an ambulance roared to join the now-blinding bombardment of red-blue haze.

Everybody climbed out to join the officers cautiously, taking their time:

Two blue cops, a pair of plain paramedics, and two or three firemen,

wearing the color of flesh not yet burned.

I watched them as they all shared words lifelessly, staring down into the sidewalk;

staring a hole down into the center of St. Paul. I could tell that outside it was windy,

even though they all had short hair – I imagined how much different everything would look,

if they had flowing, thin hair that gave itself over to Nature, blowing in their faces

and hiding from them whatever terrible thing had happened to whoever was riding those bikes,

unnaturally askew on the lawn.

Suddenly then, a single boy rose up, silently thanked them all,

and walked over to the ambulance, climbing into the shelter of its rear.

Without any sound I mused:

What would have to happen to me,

so that I could get a free ride, safe in an ambulance?

But I shook my head,

and continued changing the names.