Road rage on the bus in Shanghai

a poem by Michael DeMaranville


stifling, sticky space

it’s not the crowd

pressed like garlic in a press.

No more their stares,

I have been laowai

waygookin, inostranets

long enough, your eyes

no longer ruffle my rhino skin.

But, the smell!

Caked, crusty armpit pools

like a musty mildewed toilet

arms aimed, hands

reached to the heavens,

prayer of bodily entropy.

And you! Gawking

wide-eyed face of decay

sagging like a soggy diaper,

reeking of rot,

take a fucking shower!

Make this ride a little less unbearable.

Don’t forget to stop by the GUA Shop