Trash Devils

A behemoth city bus
heaves, rocks, bumps, 
down Fayette Street.

From three feet back,
this beast fills my world --
the rise and fall of a diesel,
a white metal wall lurching
through potholes,
past schoolkids -- eyes pinched shut,
brows furrowed.

Near the rear bumper,
where engine breath 
hoses down a sidewalk,
bits of garbage take to the air
like a flock of frightened birds.

Glints of plastic trashbag,
a spent condom wrapper,
a newspaper ad flashing
some leggy, buxom blonde,
curled leaves, candy wrappers,
crushed styrofoam cups,
cigarette butts pinked
with lipstick

stir to flight,
swirl round and round
a dizzying vortex
swollen with the heat
of filthy diesel choke
'til red brake lights wink on.

Then the inner city cyclone
settles into silence
at the foot of a one-legged Jesus
holding high his plea,
scratched across a torn-off piece
of his own home's
tattered cardboard.

Scott Speck
06/04/2003