Riding the AC Transit buses amongst
wash lines of East Oakland
one orange shirt suspended in
cold clarity like a flag of occupation
I thought it said archangels
but awoke to a voice saying change trains
to the the Richmond line
each morning I'd ride out to CAL
jeeped up on caffeine or stuck from too much weed from the night before
after school and then after work
I'd go home
falling asleep on the BART train
only to wake to the voice of the train operator
or
the smokey red eye slowly closing over
The Bay
that fall
I'd buy flowers on the walk home
center them on my one table
in a trapezoid of strange light
I'd watch the light slant through and leave them
in solitude.
