Old People In Boston

I love those 50-60 year old guys
not yet quite adjusted
to the urban revolution
because they ride the subway
like it’s a fucking war.

They’re always harnessed in
to their new Northface jacket
with the face protection helmet hood,
a hiking backpack
and hiking boots,
waiting anxiously
at the wrong stop
on the wrong side of the street
thirty minutes early.
They sprint to the bus when it comes
maiming children on the way
as if they might have to get on
in a small window of time
while the wheels are still moving.

Once they’re on
they bounce from wall to wall
like they’re on a teetering ship
and the waves are crashing in.
They latch desperately
on to the poles
for dear salvation
pulling themselves to the back
as if there’s a 100 mph wind
fighting against them,
their body struggling,
their soles clawing up the isle
one thump at a time,
chest hunched over
nearing horizontal
with a grimace on their face
like they’re climbing up Everest
and the snow’s picking up,
power washing their eyes.
And the bus driver turns around smugly
and says, “Sir, this bus ain’t leavin’
’til you pay yo’ dolla’ seventy-five!”