Franny Choi

4/30: Last Bus

Posted by on Apr 05 2013, in Uncategorized

While reading over my poem, I miss
a few stops on the 22 and have to walk

down the main artery of the post-
industrial West End: Bucklin Street,

a ghost town re-gifted to this city.
Somewhere past Bellevue and before

the old peanut factory I hear footsteps
from an alley and start tingling like

warfront– until the soft click of heels
waves me along. I am always ready

with battle cries but can’t lift my sword
without both hands and a podium. I am

too grenade with my protest, anger
targetless and everywhere at once–

useless. Fifteen minutes later, the only
blow Bucklin tosses at my feet is

a few words out the window of an old
Camry. Which might sound like treason

if I were a queen panning the river
for mutiny. Twenty minutes later,

I arrive at my boyfriend’s house,
unattacked again. This discomfort,

not quite sexy enough to be called
survivor’s guilt– just my souring fear

spilling out over the sides, a quiet and
shameful vomit staining my cheeks.

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