From this bus
pulling away from the curb
I can stretch
my neck. I can just stare into
the eyes

of a bicycle
messenger:
he is the
meat

of
the
sandwich
between
this bus and the moving van
on his other side.

Then he blows the whistle glued between his lips,
and sprint-pedals out of the sandwhich
and slides ahead of us both: bus and van,
and around
his corner.
We ride on.