Baby American
       

There are no duty-free catalogs on this trip,
no declaration cards for immigration, no in-flight mags
with ads for steakhouses in Dallas, Cincinnati,
or Indianapolis, no pleasing stewards in pressed blazers
pushing beverage carts,
no first class, or pretzels, no one puts on any airs,
or tells you, please buckle up
and lift your trays in their secure and locked positions.
The terminal where you wait before boarding
has a busy security guard who speaks a language
other than your own. He runs
a tight ship and lets you know who's in charge.
Though no one cares.
The ammonia fumes from the bathroom tell you
the terminal is spik-and-span,
at least at this hour when anytime is the right time
to troll for porn,
so sayeth that dude two seats down with his laptop.

A bearded backpacker snoozes
with security rousing him to check for his bus ticket.
There are no hoboes
here even though everyone here is homeless.
It's just a question of degree.
On the TV monitor is a CNN story about a woman in a hijab
suing an employer for discrimination.
An army-jacketed man makes his displeasure known
regarding the merits of her suit.
Nobody's ever guaranteed a job—loud enough for all to hear.

I stare at the mirrored view of the oncoming traffic
but not the trees racing by me.
We've journeyed westward for days on what feels
like the slowest train to Calcutta.
This isn't a transpacific voyage—
home is just beyond the next stop.
We're solitude-in-transit, a virus coursing
through a difficult vein.
This is no joyride, no freedom riders here.
This bus isn't bound for Selma, but to Seaside, Astoria,
and clear up to Tacoma.

At the strip mall where the bus stops, a couple
in their twenties with a homely child disembarks.
From our window we watch like yawning neighbors
taking stock of the family next door
unloading their U-Haul truck.
The hold below contained their nary precious stuff:

why two chain locks for the bike?
Stroller for baby, her plastic tub, too, oversized backpacks,
and several plastic bags for wares and whatnot.

My feelings weren't bulletproof, so I wondered if they
were happy and decided later the way
politicians regard their constituents as happy after all.
Across the street was the ARCO station
and in front of the mall

was a giant sign: KARATE, GUNS & TANNING—
another banner year for guns and gardens,
our arsenal democracy, our ruin porn.

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Copyright © 2019 Eugene Gloria All rights reserved
from Sightseer in This Killing City
Penguin Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission