Ginsberg’s Bus

One Sunday morning in November
Alan Ginsberg caught a bus
On Avenue A and mounted it
Like a salmon above his mantle.

It was cold, but hadn't snowed yet
Though the thought was there
In the way the exhaust curled
And bounced along the pavement

He looked out his window
Past his coffee cup, empty
After a night writing letters
And saw it lumbering like oxen.

Around the corner of St. Marks
Where a bongo player'd passed out
On the sidewalk, with a cop
Too bored to beat him.

That bus was caught without knowing
And now it's all that's left
Of that morning, that corner,
Or Ginsberg, for that matter,
Although it still belongs to him.