Sandra Beasley

In the diagram, Bob

is a striped blue triangle.

Some people do not like Bob.

Down with stripes.

Down with triangles.

Bob is at the intersection of

stripey-ness and blue-ness,

of triangle-ness and Bob-ness.

Luckily there are liberation groups.

Here is where the model

starts to fail me: maybe liberation

has come in the form of four taxis,

each waiting to carry Bob away

from this intersection.

Bob should not have to choose

any one taxi.

Or maybe Bob does not

want to go? Bob has noticed

the quality of the bodega’s coffee.

Bob likes this intersection.

Bob can get a pretty good deal

on a one-bedroom.

Bob is a striped blue triangle.

Bob is a damn gentrifier

In 1995, I flunked a Driver’s Ed quiz

on intersections

because I could not model

how traffic proceeds at a four-way stop.

In my head, each car

arrived at the same time.

What happens when you yield

to the car on your right,

who yields to the car on his right,

who yields to the car on her right,

who yields to you?

No one goes anywhere.

The reality,

my teacher explained,

is someone always claims

the right of way.

Four allies in four cars

meet at a four-way stop,

you know the one,

it’s over by Bob’s bodega.

The car on my right yields,

the car on her right yields.

Do you mind?

We’re in a hurry.

You’re running late

for her doctor’s appointment.

What I call my disability

you call her disease:

treatable, Thank God.

So that’s your

daughter in the backseat?

She looks just like you.


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