For reasons both mysterious and unnecessary, I found myself on four buses today. These are poems that came from the experience.
The 71.
I chat with the tourists,
The only sane ones.
California
from Chinatown to Clement,
a yuppie sandwich.
22 Fillmore:
Doritos, Cheetos, Icee—
hormonal salvo.
Oh dear number 6,
Tourists seem a bit on edge.
Muni and acid?
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