9.13.2009

Illegally in the HOV Lane

There's a bump near the southbound
95th Street exit on the Joe DiMaggio
West Side Highway, Henry Hudson
whatever you want to call it.
If you hit it at fifty
your balls float a little.
I try to hit it at sixty.

Once, on my way down to see her
I contemplated picking up
an outdoorsman who was sleeping
on the sidewalk under some sheets of cardboard.
We could grab a slice, maybe some coffee.
The thought of what his piss-soaked clothes
might smell like in the seat next to me, the
windows rolled up tight to keep the noise
and stench of the city out, deterred me.
What if I threw up? He wouldn't like that.
They say most of them are mentally ill
whether that caused or resulted from
their living conditions. I didn't want to risk
being shanked in the neck, being found
dead on the side of the road, soaked in
my own blood and vomit, my head leaning
on the horn. They'd try to bill my family
if it happened in a No Honking Zone.
Insult to injury, further shame to death.

I decided to keep driving.
Can't save them all.
If you don't have enough for the whole class
you can't have any.
Save your money
for the eight-dollar bridge toll.

Street cleaning rules are in effect.
Everything else has gone out the window.

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