Buenos Aires Querido
Here, it's car pollution: the buses emit a cloud
of unbreathable air that rises and rises
and quits eventually. The streets inundate
for a few minutes and you walk through it
for what seems like a small choking eternity.
I began this poem thinking about love.
Inside the bus feels cleaner than the air outside,
though the seats are old and worn after so many sitters.
A fake leather, an old Mercedes sign
on the top of the dashboard and inside the
steering wheel; the drivers & their routes.
Riding, you begin know an area like you know a wine glass:
each crease and cut, the dip where the wine
might splash just a bit, rising then settling.
Buenos Aires and love -- who can even count
the vapors of it, the unbreathable thing.
I began this with the idea that love was simple.