an old dorchester woman

and a girl from the high school

together stuck standing in the median

as traffic splashes past

on either side.

it's their own fault,

crossing like that,

but they didn't know they'd get stuck

and their clothes look soaked through.

i sift the caring from the condescension

and hold on tight to what's left

but i can't see my hands

she quotes herself with pauses

and talks about her kids as if we

hold our breath

a delusion--

like a freight train--

its a charge with thoughtless strength

bass shakes up the muffler

and he slaps the wheel

like the bravado

will soak him,

dampen til translucent

as a grease stain

mexican man leans

half outside his pickup

looks left, helpless

gestures at the

bus horn blown behind him

there are three bottles of paint

left on the table in the corner

and a mirror lies flat on its back

so all you can see are the cracks

in the ceiling.