Here is the street where we shop for ammonium
and cabbies deliberate over paper cups. They work
the hours of risk from gunshots to breakfast.
When a motorcycle manipulates space to crash spectacularly,
a woman beyond the circumference of wreckage
turns to her man: Why won’t you detonate with me?
We are restless, we travel. We have come to excite
ourselves in a city of alarums and excursions
and experience the voltage of a transportation hub.
Clearly, the insolent equestrian was sculpted
to be defaced as it stands in opposition
to the smoky arrival of interstate buses.
When we leave the terminal, we will leave
something ominous for the bomb squad
since they value only what may ignite.