Bus Duty in the Cafeteria

Ants aimlessly walking to
and from with cups of orange
juice bright as the morning sun
on my cheek, blinding
my existence—window
like a transparent black hole,
draining me.

They are on an assembly line
and they all look the same,
all act the same—we’re all
the same.

Voices like wind, Abigail’s
cold wind smacking.

Like pull-string dolls,
they imprint with new ink,
old stamps—brains only
replicas of the past.

So is mine.

But I was told to write
by my mind, my hand—
Told to live by my breath.

It too is a never ending
assembly line.

And I’ve never felt so alone
as when I sit within a crowd.
Carhart jackets and vans
dancing together, holding
hands at Woodstock—
material juxtaposition.

And I just heard a boy say,
“Fuck the world,” and
I get that.

I get that.