I noticed that a lot of poets write
about public transportation.
There's something inspiring about it,
and I'm not above that myself.
This particular piece is kind of an en--
my experience of riding on the L,
and freezing my ass off in Chicago,
and just thinking warm thoughts, and it's kind of in two voices.
"Woolgathering"
"Wear blue suit and overcoat.
Pack olive sweater, burgundy sweater.
How you manage to know to dress for snow with your desert
blood, escapes you.
But remember-- riding the streets of Nogales
with your prima, Marcella, an afternoon early
and hot before a carne asada, on errand for ice
and rolling up the windows.
You had to sweat to look cool as the group of batos
standing in the street corner--
their tank top machismo rippling off them
and waves of late summer sun.
You were maybe 16, gangly for your age, haircut and glasses
made you look so obviously gringo.
Car coat, knit cap, scarf, gloves--
insulated against the snow's sudden dance of apostrophes.
So Marcella says, wear this, handed you her dad's cap--
the one he kept on the seat but never wore,
Coors scrolled across the crown and red
as the batos do-rag slouching low against his brow,
the way he slouched on the corner.
Sunglasses betray your residency while you
wait through the bright 40 degrees for the next bus South.
Marcella hands you a pair of sunglasses sitting on the dash.
You scramble to follow instruction, hot, black plastic
across your nose, the hat too big and riding down
past the tips of your ears.
Now put your arm around me, Marcela
says, nods over to the batos on the corner.
Ricky, she says, we're going to make them jealous,
and you start to motor by.
Tug the knit cap down past your ears,
you were told but didn't believe how cold
the wind could oppress.
Gabriel tells you, you look like a cholo freezing his ass off.
Órale, you shiver.
The car, a sudden oven, convecting sun passed
rolled up windows, Marcella smiles out,
bandana boy smiles back--
time suspended in the heat of glass, curvature and turn.
Your face lit up from the inside of the L window,
racketing through underground stations.
There I am again, vanity smiles, another you
and another window, each self-division dividing
endlessly, all remainders.
Riding low, going slow, Marcella nudges you
and cranks her window down, air chilling against moist arms
and faces.
The ice is melting fast, you say, why'd we
roll up the windows anyway?
She laughs, 'so he'd think we had air conditioning.'"