A journey

I was three years old

and I stepped up into the streetcar

while they thought I was taking a bath

where I sat next to a lady who smelled like raspberries.

Instead, she smiled like a macaroon.

“I'm going to find my mother,” I said.

“Jing! Jing!” said the bell.

The conductor knew where he would be going,

how could he fail, set like intention

on that shining, parallel window-bar?

They asked me my name and I knew.

Trees and houses, gutters, motorcycles and cars.

So on ever since with never a stop.