Gas Can

I can’t speak on your behalf, but I feel
inflamed.  It’s only a newfound movement,
as though the limbs have been cut from casts. 
I know a man who mistakenly set
himself on fire while heaving gasoline
from a bucket.  I never visited him
in the hospital—I was too impressionable
for that sort of thing. 

Tree limbs scratch the windows of the bus. 
It rolls along at a steady clip, down
a street lined with houses.  Streetlights shine
in puddles.  I listen to music, for I’ve
heard that others do this while riding
the bus.  In one of the houses lives a
boy who will become a musician or
actor, someone of minor importance,
and he will forget about this street.  I’m
trying to forget myself, if only
we can keep from running out of gas.