Because of this Poem I Missed the Bus
Have you ever heard
the screech and scream
of iron on iron as the
tube rushes past
on a Friday morning in London?
.
I have been spoiled
by the sounds of the cities.
.
In prague, the streets
were hushed, blanketed
in whispers by an
Eastern European sensibility.
.
At Old Town Square,
the tourists (myself included)
snapped mis-composed photos
to try to capture not just
the light of the place
as it is reflected and
absorbed and bounced
around the gothic churches
and war memorials
but the feeling of being in two places at once—
or rather, at the corner of two places as they meet—
the past and the present.
.
At night, the trams
pulled around,
carrying few tourists,
mostly locals,
to their evening destinations
likely filled with good cheap beer
by the pint and the mumbles
and cadences of friendly conversation.
.
I listened for the familiar
iron-on-iron screech
to which I’d grown accustom,
but it never came;
the trams were quieter here, too,
like the people.
.
In Amsterdam,
whatever sounds
vibrated in my ears
as I exited the train
into the streets of the city
were washed out
by the overwhelming
sight of bikes upon bikes
upon bikes.
This vision of infinite
bicycles filled my brain
with a feeling
of pleasant sound
and the pleasantries
exchanged between strangers.
So, whatever sounds
the city made, I cannot remember
because my brain was
too busy remembering
something else—
the song of the sight of infinite bicycles.
.
At night, girls
perched in windows
frowned and pouted
and by day, girls
on bicycles with dogs
in their baskets—
like Dorothy in Kansas,
but in color—
smiled and pedalled
past coffee shops
filled with excited tourists
and sad locals,
all of whom would
be stoned soon.
.
In the morning,
the city was abuzz.
Bike wheels turned,
taking precedent over
the thick rubber
tires of the automobile
while pedestrians
overtook streets
lined with fry vendors
and candy shops.
I hated to leave so soon,
tired and stoned and hungry,
but I somehow longed
for the harsh
sound of iron on iron in the morning.
The pleasant buzz of Amsterdam
made me sleepy.
It made me lazy.
.
As I went from foot
to train to plane
to bus to tube,
crossed country borders,
explained my purpose of
being where I was
in muted monotone,
had my passport
stamped and stamped
and stamped again,
my brain turned to mush and
could barely even register
the screaming screeches
of iron on iron that
I so longed for.
.
Instead, I ached
for the comfort
of my industrial bed.
But when I finally arrive
to my room, I turn the key
and hear its click.
It is mid-afternoon
so I close the shades to
shield my eyes from the
sharp sun, but open the window
because my brain pined for sound.
.
This time, instead of
iron on iron screeching and screaming
on a Friday morning,
or the blanketed silence
of the people of Prague
or the whimsical squeaks of
the infinite bike wheels in Amsterdam,
it was the lull of a lazy
Saturday afternoon that rocked me
to sleep and dulled the aches in my brain.
.
I am spoiled
by the sounds
of the cities.
-J. Rendi
