The Dawn on the Bus Stop. Un-seer

Saturday. Seven a.m.

I open my unseeing eyes with my fingertips:

Isn’t it time to rescue mankind?

Having rekindled my relationship with the world

I make it to the bus stop.

Ted is lurking, glistening in the dark.

Ted, a successful customer of TD Bank

Is packaged in the scratched plastic, one and a half times my height.

We trust TD, Ted and I

But doubt the trustworthiness of the bus schedule.

It’s quite possible that I won’t get to save today

Anyone, not a single Puerto Rican fished out of the NY harbor.

Fortunately, Facebook colors the waiting

Into the shades of hope and angst:

There’s a poet who’s contemplating danger and worldwide demise

A poetess, if there’s such a word

Whose love life never materialized—

They supply fruity taste of absurd

To the cocktail of this morning.

Facebook is my coloring book

With the sour fruit of imagination on the cover.

Facebook is my hungry Big Bird

Opening its beak expecting likes.

In my anguish, I ban them all.

I’d be better off in the Russian banya

Where wet leaves imitate foliage

And at the very least won’t make my knees freeze

Unlike here.

Unrescued mankind is munching on its upteenth dream.

Ted’s pale lips are touched by the first symptoms of dawn.

Buses are nowhere to be seen.

We haven’t made up our minds

Whether Puerto Ricans are ours at all.

Wishing upon the bus: if it makes it here while it's still light

They are worth rescuing, and if not

I can always go back and check out the darkness

Of my underblanket

Space.