there is always a congregation of people
waiting in downtown central square,
for the 750 bus to arrive on a full tank of gossip and piss.
waiting at a bus stop to be transported,
to be connected to another destination.

while cellular phones drive by,
dialing up to their talking heads full of information,
jargon and bullshit, just another outlet,
moving through the downtown square,
dissecting the mood of union street,
and its revolutionary hookers,
who look out into the crowd
at business men on their cell phones reciting bad poetry,
while waiting for that 750 bus to initiate a connection.

they are united by a common scent
that fills the air around them,
the smell of breath,
confused with the smell of whiskey,
they are drowning in dissection,
a failed attempt to develop relations,
drowning in overpopulated buses that they want to bring them home,
so that they can wait somewhere else to establish a connection.

and amidst my observations, a man approaches

he offers me jesus on a postcard,
drowning in fake blood,
waiting to be resurrected,
under my breath i hesitate - aren't we all?

longing to hear the sound of the 750 bus,
through idiosyncratic words.

where has all the inspiration gone?
we stopped reaching for the moon,
and we settled for something routine,
and yet every day we fail to make it home,

when god said, "let there be inspiration"
i fail to believe she had this in mind,
our inspiration drowning in fake blood,
overcome by the smell of urine,
waiting like a loyal believer for the 750 bus,
waiting to be resurrected.

09/24/2000

Author's Note: _written while i lived in lynn, massachusetts, united states_

Posted on 11/02/2005
Copyright © 2025 Frankie Sanchez