#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 windshield

and 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.