A meditation on retirement

Sloppings of slush, sardine-tin overcrowding,
sweat-sticky seats, asphyxias of exhaust—
yes, I’m on record as having loathed it all,

but it comes at a cost, this slug-a-bed new freedom.

I miss things: swooping, diving, passionate voices
in several African tongues, so far beyond me
they might as well have beamed from the constellations.

My high-school Spanish as panting, short-legged spaniel
chasing the real deal, el mero mero,
across and back, words whacked like soccer balls.

A dozen hijabs in bridal-party brocades.
Church ladies, glorious in their faith, their hats.

Where but at city bus stops would I learn
the whole well-structured, thespian script of the panhandler,
the straight spine of the man led off in handcuffs?

Where but far in the back would I overhear
first-person testaments on criminal justice?

In clouds of diesel fumes and of unknowing
I was kept humble, like those pavement pigeons
at transfer points, annoying, breasted with rainbows.