I jam my body through a side
door of an inbound bus.
On a seat for a human
pregnant, disabled or senior,
a man with twenty-aged skin,
no pregnancy or limp
spins a lighter in his hand.
After he flicks
the fire on, his pointer finger
speeds through the red tip.
Passengers steer
compressed stares away
when his fingerprint
singes black. He kills the open flame
as the doors jolt open
and his limbs tumble out
at the next East Oakland stop.
Originally published in The Town: An Anthology of Oakland Poets (Nomadic Press, August 2023)