Wants, and: The Driver Contemplates His Choice

Wants

The rider wants my nameAnd ID number. He claims

The bus I'm driving left him yesterdayLike a castaway

Abandoned on some uncharted atoll.I've failed in my role

As captain of my vessel, he wants meTo know, and hopes that makes me happy.

Calmly I tell him I had the day off.Expelling a laugh

Bereft of humor, his face is a sheenOf vindication, eyes green

As antifreeze.He wants me to please

Not add lying to the listOf complaints he's calling in. He insists

On having my name. And I wantRight now to give it to him—and all the taunts

And griping that sitting hereBrings my uncloseable ears.

Instead, I keep my tone soberWhen I say: Ron Tober,

ID Six HundredSixty-Six. Armed with the name of the head

Of the bus company (retiredYears ago), the rider is now fired

Up to get me fired. IgnitedBy the satanic light

I've sparked, maybe he thinks I've gone servile,But at last I make him smile.

The Driver Contemplates His Choice

What stupid calculusTold him driving a busWould be the way to reachA writer's life? To teachWould be hours marking papersBy surly teenagersWho only saw their degreesAs passports to the countriesOf wealth and status. MathHad been his major: a pathCertain to bring successOf the kind that counted. Useless,Though, to someone stirredUnexpectedly by words.After serving a tourIn the navy, he washed upOnce more on shore, then droppedInto a life he neverForesaw at all—a cleverVariation on "the commandOf a vessel" which his own handSteers. But it hauls a mobHe can't court-martial: the jobAt first he tolerates,He slowly grows to hate.It pays really wellFor dumb labor, he tellsHimself, and I don't raceHome with a briefcaseOf papers I need to grade.Instead, his nerves are frayedBy traffic, drunks, and kidsHe longs to get ridOf as soon as they board.He remembers (between hordes)He'd planned to use his timeOff to follow rhyme

And rhythm into placesA bus can't go. When he facesA blank page, he findsOnly numbers entwinedLike fiery afterimagesBurn its expanse: addressesHe's told to watch outFor, the numbers of his routes,Timepoints he must make,The petty fares he takes.He puts his pen awayFor good. The next day,When he reaches for a transfer,It paper-cuts his finger.