In Transit
By Beau Beausoleil
I used to
take the
number #43
bus
to work
that bus
sliced
through
parts of
San Francisco's
hills
and valleys
like a
meandering
knife
But on some
unannounced days
the driver
strayed from
his usual streets
following instead
the route of his
favorite moon
of Jupiter
"Callisto"
Callisto
Callisto
I am looking
for your shadow
he would
call out
as if it were
the next stop
And all
the regular
riders on
the bus
would say
her name
Callisto
into their
hands
behind
their closing
eyes
And each of us
on our way
to work
lived for those
few exquisite days
of abandoned
destinations