In my rush, I took the wrong bus.
In my fatigue, I didn’t get off.
I could’ve sworn the scrolling sign said North,
but the bus headed East at 12:21.
Perhaps we see what we want to see, a palindrome.
Perhaps the universe branched, part of me took the straight
and my double took the detour. No one’s alarmed,
we aren’t hijacked, I took the wrong bus…
I’ve been this way before…
three years ago, looking for open mic night
— found my classmate four beers into his teddy-bear-hobo routine,
three years before that, looking for a book signing,
— asked some guy standing outside, “Is this the line for _________?”
His mouth said no, but his eyes said something else.
The pause was full of possibility.
What does it mean that when I get lost, I go East,
that I set out for book-signings and end up at bars,
And the boys that set me straight
look like sad, drunken saviors?