riding the 192 on Groundhog Day
I shouldn’t be surprised I’m at bow-legged angles today, running late
even before I wake up, then uncertain of the cream in my coffee,
the little shake of brown sugar. It is warmer out than it should be
this time of year, winter forgetting herself, and I don’t know which coat
to wear to the city, where I am headed this very moment to meet a friend for lunch.
But I've missed the first bus and instead, am riding the 192, which takes the longer way
through Clifton and Lyndhurst and Rutherford, stopping so many times you'd think
we were tallying the yards to Lincoln Tunnel. Maybe we should. Our grip on Time
is flimsy at best, yet we're always so itchy in our seats, willing speed into the wheels,
which whisper back "sshhh, sshhh" as if they hope we'll quiet down and start counting.