poem of the day 09.24.10

for the bitch who missed her bus stop

and for the bus driver who came to
a screeching stop
the moment she yelled

yeah, that was me smacking off
of that metal pole, you union prick
that was my bag of wine hitting
the back of the plastic seat with a rich thud

we’re all lucky those bottles didn’t break
right then and there
or i would’ve killed the two of you
on the spot

no, the wine broke when i got off the bus
and you both were safely gone
i made it half a block before
the bottom of the thick, blue bag ripped open
and one of the bottles fell out
smashing all over the pavement
a river of cheap italian blood red wine cascading
into the cracks on the sidewalk

i managed to catch the other bottle
before it went straight to hell, too

i’ll have the both of you know
that i picked up most of the glass
with my bare hands and carried it
like a dead bird
the four remaining blocks to my apartment
much to the riotous joy of a group of teenagers
who love to revel in the pain and misery
of the hapless working class

i even went back to sweep up the rest

this morning the remains of the broken bottle
sat there in my garbage can mocking me
as i nursed another mean hangover

you’re lucky it was payday
you wailing bitch, you chauffeur for the rabble
and that i had the money to go and get
a replacement bottle
from the iranian wine merchants
on third avenue

but fuck me, i’m still out ten bucks
ten bucks that i’ll need two weeks from now
for a goddamned bottle of wine
or a pint of scotch
the day before next payday

and why does shit like this happen
to a guy like me anyway?

i never try to hurt anybody
and i stay out of everyone’s way
i even turn my music down on the bus
so that people can read their books
and so you could shout on your cell phone

remember that?

even the bus driver didn’t give you that courtesy
blasting his rap-rock the whole ride home
while you kept a finger pressed into your ear
so you could hear your asshole friend
on the other end of the line

why even mention any of this to you guys?

neither of you care
to you i’m just a whining working schlep
with a penchant for blissful inebriation

all the same, you wailing harlot
you probably missed your stop again tonight
chattering away on your phone
like the dumb damned always do

and you
you eight-wheeled assassin
you’ve probably sent half a dozen
poor bastards
flying across your piss-scented death trap today
hopped up on adhd drugs
hoping you pull your back on a sharp turn
so you can collect a ten week vacation
on the city’s dime

the city replacing you
with another reckless asshole
sucking the tit of pension and privilege

until he can retire
at the ripe old age of fifty-five.