Something somehow organizes the rush. Tonight, with
my own hand strap, I won't have to milk the poles,
bump the crinkly cellophane-wrappped bouquets
whose petals fan like koi fins in sunset's yellow-red
wake. An uncle kept koi with snow globes, plastic
hornworts, sprinkles, and castles in his man cave
aquarium. The pole dancers lean back, lurch, hoochie
hoochie, relève. Some file out as others file in, as if
choreographed. Like chorus lines. Like my koi uncle —
union organizer, earthy — opposite of my father, who
took pride in driving the very line I'm riding on now.
A dancer grins. He winks at me. I wince. Was his pop
a driver too? Knee pit clamping a pole, he arcs back
until he's horizontal. Then upside down. Impressive,
but here's my stop. My father flipped too, not on koi
nor hornworts but rice & meat and died a diabetic
mess. The coy uncle's also gone, though I still see
his koi more vividly than I do my fellow commuters.
San Francisco turns on a dime. The backdoor folds
open to aquarium lighting. This is my stop, my turn.
I know — I should've danced the poles, given it a try.
