On James Street in Hamilton, there is a little bar where the thinkers go, where steelworkers put up their boots and poets slosh around pomegranate verses on the walls. This is The Brain.
HAMILTON
is a city on a Bus
a Rusty Red Bus with a busted headlight
Where is the Driver going?
I don't know
I haven't seen him
or her
No one has seen the Driver, though we wish he'd show us where we are on the cosmic map
and why it's taking so long to get there —
wherever THERE is
We're toys on a Bus, a tired old Bus, living this
steeltown dream
just a dream
as real as you and me
Somewhere a child scoops out stars from puddles
in the road
and a sex worker on Barton holds her baby close
and another shooting terrifies Jackson Square
and GOLFI GETS IT SOLD —
Where is the Driver going?
Will this silver city rise?
Maybe it isn't about the Driver
Maybe we're just walking each other Home