Community College (This Side of Kyoto)
by Abbie McCabe
The bootleg Starbucks is closed
this early, but still smells
operational. I’m cold. I smell
the trees opening to new
chromatography. Five geese vee
a new foreground for the day.
Summer pulls my toes toward
some other region. Route 1
is a double stack. Rusted steel,
rusted steel. I have wings
and they are stainless.
Nothing holds me here
in Charlestown. The 426 bus
bows in and out of traffic and
I’m faster. The bird that I am
is living. My feet, rusty pink,
resist what tugs them. Winter
gestates, for today, in wings
which are not mine. Concrete
courtyards, concrete buildings.
My thermos smells of coffee.
I own nothing, which is
what keeps me here.