No Mixing Allowed on the 61C McKeesport

I boarded the bus downtown, took

a seat. You smiled, pulled off

your headphones, chatting me up:

I asked where you worked, you asked

about my work. You talked about

music, I described a book. I took

your notebook to write down

the title. (You gotta read this.)

It went like this all the way

through Oakland to Squirrel Hill, so

we did not notice the voice until

it got louder. Louder. LOUD.

HEY, YOU.

HEY, YOU. YOU.

GET OFF THE BUS.

GET OFF THE BUS.

OFF MY BUS.

OFF. GET OFF MY BUS.

You whispered next stop and rose

in slow motion, wound your way

through bodies, briefcases, glares.

After all, the bus was now late

and apparently you were the culprit.

The driver faced you on the street

yelling, pointing, cursing. In a daze,

I tried not to hear, could not look.

I heard GIRL. I heard NO. Everyone

on the bus was looking at you. At me.

You vanished as the bus pulled away.

Eyes down, I exited the silent bus

at Forbes and Murray. Ran a block

to you. You gripped my elbow. Your dark

eyes met mine: No promise there,

only defeat. I kissed your cheek.

We went our separate ways. Now, thirty

years later, I still wonder how you are.

I first wrote about this incident a few years back, but have been working to tighten it up and allow the story of the injustice to come through. Please let me know if you think I’ve succeeded.

#19 of 30 Poems In November to benefit Center for New Americans.