Here is a quick little poem by me for you today.
On the window of the L-Taraval there are five yellow spots. I stare at the smeared glass through all four stops, wondering who would throw mustard, shoot paintballs, or bleed the wrong color on accident.
The trick of not making eye contact absorbs me. Finally, someone has granted me a focal point: the spots. Before they dried, they dripped, so I count the lines, careful not to follow them to their endpoints near eyes.
We swing together, me, yellow spots, crisp shirts. Reflected back at me are ghosts in those shirts, ghosts of the spots, of me, of the destination in bright green dots: EMBARCADERO. Last stop.