taking the Orangeline one afternoon in august

weary feet, still sore from late night adventures,

from treading on a pair of dollar-fifty flip-flops,

climb into the sleek station bus

rainbow fuzz against bright orange coats,

newly upholstered seats

carry us home,

sigh as commuters come and go

I inhale a too-crowded cocktail—

tangy sweat , sticky plastic produce bags, and stale cool air—

waiting for my turn to pull

the finger-paint yellow plastic rope

clutching against a layer of heat

a cheap paper map, my Linus blanket

we reminisce about the day just had,

the great exploration of this city of plastic angels, the white sign on the hill

two friends getting to know home in time to leave,

the Sunset of electric costume shoes and Thai dresses,

the dark chocolate melody of Bowie and burning incense,

the undercurrent of soon-to-be-made goodbyes:

goodbye to the season,

goodbye to a city newly found and newly loved.

through the static a worn female voice:

“Reseda.” My first goodbye.

I go alone into the valley’s dry air

up the long boulevard.