Alone in the Metropolis

Suppose the No. 37 

had decided not to stop

My arm extended, lifted, waiting 

under

jacaranda trees in bloom

Suppose that driver 

fat and sweaty, overworked   for 30 years, 

as long             as life               allowed

had not debated, heatedly 

new prisoners, captivity 

on metal floors in air 

so stagnant, diesel-laden 

that my hair 

turned grey with soot.

Suppose panaderias 

bright inviting 

pastry cream flirtations 

had not winked as 

No. 37 splashed and halted 

in the Buenos Aires bathtub full of traffic.

It would not occur to you 

to buy a gift for someone strange. 

For someone filled 

with so much anger 

that it rolled

up over pants 

and out of yellowed shirt sleeves 

under lip curls 

into hairy nostrils 

that one tray of sweets

3 pesos please

might change his heart to dulce.