Rides
Erica Kaufman

The day I left my watch behind,
the bus driver threatened never to stop.

I barely noticed, too busy languaging
and basking in my walkman's splendid

isolation. Wish I wore sunglasses even
though windows are tinted and it's dark

outside. New Brunswick. Where the other
side of the river is another world,

where I wear gloves typing at my own
computer. I step over bar regulars daily.

Going to class, coming from work. One day
I will step on them, hoping to hear a thunderous

crunch. Like the one I heard last night, stepping
on cockroaches, belly up, in the equipment

closet. Almost there. It's hard to believe
there's still seven and a half hours left of

menial mania. I'm going where I am hidden
from fall foliage and I'm going where

vowels are the secret to crossword puzzles,
where my name spreads like smoke in an

airless room and they feel that this is
the perfect rectangle. Where angels clip

their wings to become human. Where baby 
sonnets mourn their missing couplets.

The optometrist told me that my head is
crooked, so my glasses will never be straight.