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Public Transport

February 14, 2008

There’s no one around, the center sere,
dry as the moon. No one comes near
the still terminal. Buses dispatched
like the sun overnight, doors unlatched,

sit smelling of vomit and beer. Where are
the drunks, neighborhood newstands, far
smoke from the rendering plant? My eye
from a window that never was lends the dry

look of circumstance, something like form,
then takes it back. Sunday, normal,
not sinister. Pigeons unpattern the clouds
with a wash of gray. Trains reroute,
flash like the first things alive.
In the rain, the Daily News arrives.

by Robbi Nester

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  1. LT
    February 14, 2008 at 10:37 am

    Masterful use of rhyme that reinforces the sense of solitude.

  2. February 14, 2008 at 10:48 pm

    Hello, Robinka: I like this.

  3. February 15, 2008 at 8:11 am

    This is fantastic. Puts me in mind of a Hopper painting.

  4. February 15, 2008 at 9:57 am

    I like the possible play on “transport,” and the way the form of the poem breaks down right on cue. The last four lines in particular transport me. Very nicely done.

  5. Robin Hudechek
    February 18, 2008 at 2:30 pm

    Hi Robbi!

    Some very nice imagery here! I like the “pigeons unpattern the clouds” image very much. Great work!

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