- Maybe the Saddest Thing
I can't remember how to ride a bus right.Just the other day, I forgot who I was
and couldn't budge to help a human in needbecause the pen in my pocket was poking
my thigh saying, Use me. Use them. Writetheir stories. As if I am not them—
that woman and her two little girls, mountingsome ten ton thing daily, fare or no fare
rust bucket but not broken down, travelingat a pace beyond my control. And how sad
it is, because I'm really not them. Most daysI keep at least a buck in my pocket to pay
the driver and if not, a briefcase, which saysI'm good for it. That was, somehow, miserable
to admit. I'm only telling you this becauseyou're reading a poem, probably spend
perfectly good bar nights feeling the worlddeeply with the ballpoint pen in your pocket
and though a tad abnormal to discussall humans want to understand everything
and for everyone to understand us.What I can't understand is what makes me
feel a difference between me and any threepeople on a bus. Maybe the saddest thing
in the world, is not knowing how to feelcold, plastic bus seats without thinking [End Page 49]
of narrative arc—the 10,000 pains shiftinguncomfortably from cheek to raw-red cheek
and at any given moment. This. [End Page 50]
Marcus Wicker's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in jubilat, Crab Orchard Review, Hayden's Ferry Review, Harpur Palate, Rattle, Ninth Letter, Sou'Wester, DIAGRAM, and Cream City Review, among other journals. He is an Ann Arbor, Michigan, native who holds fellowships from Cave Canem and Indiana University, where he received his MFA. Marcus is also a 2010-2011 Fine Arts Work Center Fellow.