At MacArthur and Maple

across from Diamond Market

where the beer and smokes

preach my name, I jam myself

onto a 57 outbound

within a swath of wedged bodies.

On a seat for a human

pregnant, disabled or senior, 

you — with spry skin,

no pregnancy or limp —

flick on a lighter

to speed your fingers

through the red tip.

Passengers swerve 

compressed stares away

when your thumbprint

singes black. The driver

steers under a green light

as you mercifully 

kill that burn.

The front doors swing open

at the MacArthur and 35th stop

for your limbs to tumble out.

You left your lighter 

on the seat. A pregnant

woman now sits there.

I slide open a window

to fling your flame

out onto Oakland concrete.

Published in The Town: An Anthology of Oakland Poets (Nomadic Press, August 2023)