Windfall: A Bus Play

The seat behind me is grunting assent every 4.3 seconds

or so.

Sometimes there is more.

I stare at the seat:

stares back.

The window:

Tulip fog ails the mandatory spring.

      (Fact: if it had a choice, New York City would serve only

      1. Winter a la Carte and

      2. Summer Flambé in a gray cream sauce.)

Seat agrees.

Seat: Yuh.

      (Fact: Your brother brushes his teeth before it rains.

      I put on deodorant.)

Seat: Where?

I have overweight

seaweed eats too much for its own good then

it’ll be fat and no one will want to sit with it on

the long busride.

Seat: Yeh.

      (Fact: no one wants to sit with you on the bus)

Passenger:(grainy hair, raked with a claw):

      I am an intellectual.

Seat: Hmm.

(Fact: the amber waves of grain are actually more yellow than amber, and the mountains only purple if they are quite far away, say 75 miles.)

      (Fact: There is more hair than grains in New York City.)

Witness: I want to be a cowboy.

               Give me denim or

               give me death.

Seat would like to be a saddle.

Fade out to gentle rain, or Tuesday.