#31 Balboa
I roll with the bus.
This west-bound
route amazes me,
a street where no one
peeks out tight-
shuttered eyes.Headed far as a trip
goes, passengers jerk
along. No one pulls
the cord or waits by
the curb. In the outer
district, tides tug
the streets. Blocks
stretch long.Delirious, I slide past
pastel faces, wishing
the ride would not
end, even here, where
armored plates collide.“Ocean Beach,” flashes
red, end of the line,
the Pacific splashed
on the windshieldand a blaze of sand.
Ripping blinders from
both sides, I see
an endless horizontal
line, azure above,
below, scalloped green.What I know falls away—
wild surmise.