Tonight, we have a very special Bus Poem. Our poet is Brian McGuigan, who is a big muckety-muck at the Hugo House and co-founder and curator of Cheap Wine and Poetry, the big fun drunk poetry reading at the House. He also blogs every once in a while over here.

Here is his bus poem:

war
after Bukowski

the bus driver sighs stopped at the light
as rain falls on the windshield;
he doesn’t have a chance—
rides from Queen Anne
through Capitol Hill
and out to the CD, an improbable rain,
and an improbable timetable,
we pass so many without a chance.
and I realize that there isn’t much chance
for any of
us. peace won’t save us and war won’t save us,
a good war or a bad
war.
we take a lot and use it until it is
gone.
bombs drop, tax seasons begin, there are sick days and
days we just call in;
we try to cheat the machine.
war, you kill any man
and then another.
the bus driver has Denny Way
between Seattle Center and the 5.
I sit next to a veteran who puts his feet up
on a seat.
there is a small tear rolling from one of the bus driver’s
eyes. he is ashamed to wipe it
away.
the people click on cell phones or listen to iPods or look out their
windows.
the tear rolls
rolls over the cheekbone
then down the face,
then the
floor.
MLK, yells the bus driver,
turning on MLK
Way.
he speaks, at last. what a dubious thing.
I get off at MLK. I need to smoke and have something
to eat. I don’t care about the bus
anymore. it is a
death toll scrolling across the bottom
of a TV screen. I don’t see it
anymore.
there will be more buses.

I decide to smoke
and eat after.

I walk into the rain and out of the rain
and take off my wet shoes
and dry off.