12th and Fine
by
—t r a b o c c o
Bus.
Rain.
Her.
She brushed by my arm—
and I apologized to God.
I cursed him earlier...
My car had broke down.
Pissed.
Stranded.
And on my big day.
So I ran...
Two blocks.
Four puddles.
Soaked shirt.
Then—her.
Scent.
Eyes.
Hair.
So fucking worth it.
I take back the angst...
'Sorry, big guy in the sky.'
Always a plan, I suppose.
And just like that,
the day shifts...
something in the air changes.
The kind of moment
you don’t see coming,
but you know
it’s the start of something.
The Bus—
Still breathing heavy
but i made it.
Paint on the floor.
White.
Splattered.
Jagged.
Careful…
don’t get it on myself.
Delicate hand gleaning seat tops.
An eye-to-eye glance—
her fingers graze
my shoulder.
“Accident.”
Sits one seat back,
left side.
Her umbrella—
large, old-fashioned,
lightly shaken,
held low;
Her actions—
polite,
sweet,
feminine, like flowers.
Bus jerks forward.
Long arm pulls pole.
Diesel groans.
Paint rolls backward,
filling the black lines
between
the
aisle
tiles.
I watch lines race back...
first one to the emergency exit.
A chill.
Wet jeans.
Bag leaking.
Rain hammers,
then hushes—
under bridges,
beneath thick trees.
Then again—
like hose on metal.
I’ve had a beat in my head all day.
The rain is the bassline.
Memory is the melody.
Old friends.
Laughter.
Romance.
She’s soaked.
I look.
She laughs.
That smile.
Men—you tell me.
A woman.
Wet.
Blue eyes
through a blonde veil.
Blouse—see-thru.
Skirt—clung.
Legs—sculpted.
Squints with smiles…
Confidence like that’s rare.
Heels.
Five-seven.
On a bad day…
she’s a twelve.
Long held smile.
What can we do?
I return the smile.
Now we’re entangled
in atmosphere.
Glance at my watch.
Black. Stoic. Thick band.
Look away.
Then get up.
And sit next to her.
She shows surprise.
Moves the umbrella
to the window side.
Guy behind her doesn’t move his face.
Just his eyes—
slanted at me.
Nerd.
Skinny.
Normal.
His eyes say it all:
This motherfucker… no way.
I taste the sin…
hovers like a gargoyle
at the roof
of my mouth.
Every raindrop on that window
sounds like judgment—
steady, syncopated...
sayin’ don’t mess this up, boy.
The devil keeps time in my chest
I nod along.
Same old band.
Same old song.
I hear the beat
before I speak—
like my pulse is slapping spoons,
bringing the cool to surface.
Then say—
“Can’t help noticing…
you’re wet.”
She laughs.
“Now that’s a risky pick-up line,
wouldn’t you agree?”
(English. Oh God… my favorite accent)
Her chuckle says a thousand things.
I’m in.
When she laughed,
I remembered lives
I never lived...
like her joy
had already forgiven me
for who I’d been.
Backstory. Brief.
Guys like me,
we read the room early.
Not to impress—
to survive.
We don’t play the game.
We just notice
what most people miss.
No tricks.
Just timing.
Reckless men.
We don't follow rules.
We just go for it—
when we should...
when we shouldn't...
Hero's when we hit.
Homeless when we miss.
I reach out.
Black watch—
catches her hair.
A fumble.
No crisis.
She’s laughing.
Still laughing.
“You’re seriously going to kiss me.”
That accent.
It goes through me.
For a second, I flinch.
Too much?
Too soon?
I don't apologize for my gift
I write... very well...
Others paint, some sing...
we all know the people
in the room
before we draw them in.
Why hesitate...
when you can
predict
outcomes.
She’s still laughing.
I say nothing.
Some people chase moments—
me... I just notice when they arrive.
I take a mental polaroid
I paint a still of her
in my mind's eye.
Nothing creepy.
No bad intention...
Just a thing I do.
You'd be surprised
of how many of such
I can recall.
Been doing this since I was a boy.
Before the risk, I retain it on brain film.
My 'moment of the day'.
Desire—
Isn’t that the thing
that doesn’t ask?
Doesn’t explain?
Itches.
Hungers.
Thirsts.
Imagines.
Kisses.
I slide my hand
around the back of her neck.
Through wet hair.
Slow—
(for the watch).
Grip.
Pull.
She’s laughing.
That will change.
Electricity.
Deep.
Present.
Human.
We kiss...
Just like real people do.
The connection
wasn’t lips—
it was a mirror
shattering
in slow motion,
and behind every shard
was me,
finally
unhidden.
I pull back.
Now I laugh.
She’s flushed.
Shocked.
Happy.
Breath—held.
Pupils—blown.
I know the signs.
This ain’t my first kiss.
“Still soaked?”
I say again—
smiling now.
Different this time.
Smug.
She grins.
The beat is in both of us now.
Songs by our favorite artists.
Humans:
We all love the phantom,
the one that rises
like mist in a bus aisle,
made by two people
that surrounds them in haze,
the fog of euphoria.
“You are too much…”
Still locked on my eyes.
“Well, it’s a good thing I have an umbrella,” she says.
Wet... her timing is horrible.
Which makes her that much more irresistible.
Innocent.
A hint of wild.
Rare.
With those looks.
Her fox smile.
She just holds me in her eyes.
Even a poet has trouble here.
Just… taking too much in perhaps.
The sound
of the rain on the bus,
like cymbals struck—
and a beauty
in those eyes
that hold time
and love
and eternity
and—my God—
oh my… a riff…
a walk at midnight, hand in hand,
and the air of youth,
the buzz of a football game
on a crisp Friday,
when you’ve just kissed your love
and the song,
that one song,
that carries your name
in its melody.
And oh help me…
her…
too much.
Do you feel this?
And the aftershock
of something honest—
felt in the bones,
held like heat
in winter,
and the afterglow
of it all…
and
oh
those
eyes
That look though things—
I’ve seen it.
Rare.
The one that says:
I want this to be real.
I’m tired of being too much for men.
I say:
“You know,
those big blue eyes of yours…
they don’t keep secrets too well.”
She leans in—
and kisses me.
I unlock my lips
and fall back into the seat.
That dramatic fall—
satisfaction made physical.
She does the same.
Both of us, grinning.
Breathless.
I glance around.
That guy…
still facing forward,
but his eyes
pointing toward me.
I don’t read them.
No need.
He mouths it—
“Way to go.”
Smiles.
I smirk.
Then let my mind fade
into the resonance
of her tongue
still in my teeth.
“So…”
she laughs.
God. That laugh.
Again... big guy in the sky,
I owe you one.
This is fire.
She says:
“I’m Emily.
Though names don’t matter much to you, I suppose?”
Nervous smile—
as if this is my routine.
“I’m Elias.”
She laughs.
Hand in her hair.
“Of course you are.”
The name matches the look.
I glance back—
nerd guy’s still watching.
What’s his story?
She laughs again—
the kind that has feeling in it.
And I say, "Just so you know…
I’ve done that maybe once before…
but never have I felt this.”
(And I meant it.)
Then—
the moment.
She whispers:
“I almost didn’t take the bus today…
I hate the rain
and...
so surreal...
I touched your shoulder on purpose
and imagined kissing you,
but...
I just imagined it."
Boom.
There it is.
Truth.
Soft.
Unexpected.
Real.
She confirmed my actions.
People like me
are highly attuned.
We can read
the signals in absence...
So who's the initiator...
Her or I?
12th Street.
Voice over the intercom.
“Well… that’s my stop.”
“Can I come with you?”
She stares and says,
“Are you fucking serious?”
Bus stops.
She stands.
Slides over me—
her body pressing
just a little longer than needed.
Confidence... man.
I glance at the crowd.
Still eyes.
They’re all watching.
She walks.
Two steps.
Then:
“Oh fuck it," she says.
“I’m at the Hudson.
12th and Fine.”
“Of course you are,” I say.
Behind us—
a small voice:
“Oh, good one…”
That nerdy guy.
Kind of growing on me.
I owe him one.
Fans.
We always have them.
Built-in base.
She leaves.
6:00.
I say,
“I’ve got nowhere to be.”
I jump up.
Check my watch.
Fist bump the guy.
I’m off—
chasing my dream.
The rain
didn’t soak me—
it baptized
the lie
I’d been living
before her.
I smell her.
And eternity.
Bus driver.
Big guy.
Black dude.
Lovely disposition.
Bag of chips—chewing fast.
Eyes deep,
like an oracle
who’s seen it all.
He laughs—
a rumble from the chest.
Pride in it.
Joy.
“My bus…” he says,
“I seen it when you two got on.
Love is in the air.
My bus... my magic bus.”
He nods,
like it gave his day meaning.
Like it confirmed the world was still good.
She moves down
those last three
big rectangular bus steps.
I follow.
The world awaits.
My car?
A past life.
I used to worry about things like that.
Now? I know better.
My watch?
It stopped
the
moment
I
saw
her.
Now it’s just a wingman.
No ticking.
No tether.
Because now—
I know what time it is.
It’s the hour
when everything changes.
I kiss her.
Long. Heavy.
I got somewhere to be…
Some surprise in her eyes.
I get the address...
I’m off and running…
"I'll be back..." I yell.
Off and running
down
the
wet
city
street.
I get there late.
Disheveled.
But, I make it...
As I Am
My big day.
Love in my coat.
But a full tone shift.
The beats changed.
I’m as ready
as
I’ll
ever
be…
The Arrival
The miracle
wasn’t a flash—
not fame, not light—
but a body
still standing
after the storm.
A voice
still speaking
when no one asked.
A man
beating silence into shape
until it sounded like home.
The best writing breaks rules—
not in ignorance,
but in devotion
to something holier.
What I Brought
There was a price.
The others came in suits,
schooled in salons,
polished and proper.
I came in a black tee.
Torn jeans.
Two days unwashed.
Slept in a car.
A broken down one.
No home—
just breath
and a toothbrush.
They had mentors.
I had my mother.
She said:
"Believe, son."
So I did.
They knew MFA.
I knew hunger.
Prayer.
Library lights
that hummed 'til dawn.
If I fail—
I’m not embarrassed.
I’m homeless.
Still,
I showed up.
I’m bipolar.
Medication?
Out of reach.
But this fire—
this surge—
I time it like a god
on a knife’s edge.
I forged my way in.
Signed names
I’d borrowed.
Bent shadows.
But I’m here.
I brought rhythm.
Not syllabus,
but sunrise.
Not essays,
but endurance.
My Mother’s Voice
Some nights,
I imagined the end—
alone.
Ashamed—
no wife,
no kids.
Just me.
"I’m sorry, Mom," I whispered.
"My life...
I haven’t made much of myself."
She winced,
frail in the hospital bed.
"My boy," she said,
"never apologize.
What you’ve been through...
My lovely boy..."
And she went on to say...
"Just remember the things we talked about.
When mania comes—
write the fire
out with your soul.
When depression rises—
hold on, my son.
Think of the tree—
Benny.
The oak you named as a child.
I watched you climb him,
laugh in his limbs.
You called him your fortress,
your kingdom in the leaves.
Benny had wild branches.
He wasn’t like the other trees.
I knew all the way back then…
He followed no rules.
Leaves and sticks in every direction.
Wild. Untamed. Like you.
A handful.
But remember,
he kept us cool in summer.
Big limbs over our house.
No rules.
But he was good.
He was kind.
I would tell you that every night.
Just like you.
Those are the only rules you need.
The rest…
be wild, like Benny.
Let them take you as you are.
Think on Benny.
And know:
It will pass.
Of all the things—
letting you go in this world
breaks me, Elias.
But know:
I BELIEVE IN YOU”
The Room
"Take your seats."
A laugh to my left.
A brush-off to my right.
They didn’t know
the price
of bleeding ink.
I rush to the bathroom.
Greenish light.
No windows.
A hum like a fuse box whispering,
“not yet.”
I stare.
Mirror cracked in one corner.
So am I.
I nod once
like I’m about to fight
a version of myself
that’s been hiding
behind the glass.
Shirt open.
Breath fast.
I watch my ribs move like lies.
This isn’t the beginning of an essay—
this is the end of a breakdown
I’ve been postponing for three weeks.
One voice says:
“They don’t want to hear it.”
Another:
“Who are you trying to be?”
The last one:
“You know how this ends.”
I hold the counter.
My wrists don’t trust me.
The room swims.
Colors bend.
And there it is at last...
My reflection:
As a painting...
Swirls.
Circular.
Worn.
Bronze.
The light as a fevered sun,
gold,
bleeding into shadow,
a mind
that burns
that freezes
in the same breath.
Lit from within.
Unfinished.
Storms of brilliance.
Storms of ash.
Both holy.
Both unbearable.
Like weather...
Like me...
I punch the mirror.
Not hard.
Just enough
to feel something
answer me back.
A drip of blood
says I’m here.
A sob… silent…
stays in my throat.
Why god…
Why do keep sending demons.
Leave me be…
Leave me fucking be.
Tears down my face.
“Write,” my mother had said.
“Even
when
the
fire
turns
inward.”
I fix the collar.
Rebutton.
Pull the sleeves just right.
Breathe again…
four counts.
I nod.
I grab the paper.
Step out.
Back into the hush.
Disheveled.
Back to my seat.
A smug chuckle
from the asshole
in the polo
next to me…
Prompt:
Ok, writers…
"In two minutes,
tell us about your mother,
and give a title.
GO."
I couldn't have chosen a better topic.
Before I wrote,
I counted:
1.
2.
3.
The rhythm.
Always the rhythm.
And then—
as always…
the words flowed
like fire.
(Title: The Weight of Ash)
I waited until everyone left.
The sky was dark.
A violin played
somewhere in the distance.
My mother was ash now.
I sat in the corner—
destroyed—
watching the boys
box her up.
One of them joked
about throwing her
dust in the garden.
My soul rose—
ready to crush the boy
against cement.
My disease
can do that.
In a blink.
But I held back.
For her.
Mom, reduced to ash.
They sealed her away.
I watched the rain—
sideways.
I thought about life
without her.
She always told me:
“Keep going, son.
You are the miracle
waiting to happen.
Make it happen.”
When I’m sick,
she is there.
Now she’s gone.
But she’s free.
Not just of pain,
but of me.
To be cared for
by the one you love—
it hurts.
More than you know.
I can now do this…
because she believed in me.
And I know
I accept
I am:
Free
Wild
Untamed
Bipolar
--
The Voice in the Fire
TIME!
Theirs read like play.
Mine—
like reality...
like a weapon.
Silence.
A man in a suit:
"Who wrote this?"
They checked my name.
No degree.
No pedigree.
But they couldn’t stop reading.
Two walked out.
Not ready
for truth.
Grief taught me grammar—
how to pause,
how to break,
how to begin again.
I think back:
a walk
before sickness pinned her to bed.
"Son," she said,
"I love you more than myself.
No pressure—
but I ask one thing:
Write.
Your illness is real.
I’ve seen its ruin.
But it’s also a gift—
that few can carry.
Unleash it,
and life will make way for you.
And son...
when it gets hard…"
I nodded.
"I know, Mom.
Benny."
She smiled.
"Ha. Yes. Benny."
The Ivy
Round Two.
Prompt:
"Tell us about your college life,
as though you are present,
living there."
I smiled.
Clearly that topic
was to crush me.
Naive assholes...
I counted.
I struck.
Ivy League?
No.
Ivy
cracking
concrete
where
I
slept.
Frank Thomzan Library—
your steps,
my bed.
Sally was a bird.
My only friend.
You threw rocks.
I didn’t cry.
I watched her go.
I wasn’t raised by books—
but by what survived the burn.
You ate meals.
I ate memory.
You casually trashed old books.
I collected them like treasure...
You wrote essays.
I memorized breath
and begged the river
to keep me.
Hope isn’t light—
it’s the shadow
that refuses to leave
when the sun is gone.
This prize—
a thousand dollars.
To prove I mattered.
To show my wife,
who left
when the sickness stayed.
--
Proof
TIME!
They read my piece.
Then stopped.
Awarded me.
Uplifted me.
Offered help.
I used silence
like a shovel,
digging
through
shame
until I struck
my own name.
In short time...
I was put back together
as best as possible.
Graduation.
Thousands.
And me—
ME!
Selected to read
a brief essay I had written.
A miracle
in cracked glass.
I spoke with my heart
about my condition...
And then I read with my soul:
“If I can stand here,
so can you.
I’m just proof
that miracles wear
black tees,
carry ash,
and speak
in fire.
And if I fall again—
(and I will)—
don’t call it failure.
Call it rhythm.
A rest note.
A breath before the return.
Because this fire—
this broken light—
still dances in me.
And when I rise again,
I rise
as I am.
Seasons pass...
...I battle my self
US
there’s still her toothbrush
in the cup by the sink—
bristles flared,
bent,
some in,
some out,
pressed by pressure,
by time…
how long can a room hold
what a body no longer fills?
I mend things now—
a hinge,
a leaking pipe,
a heart
stitched in a crooked wire
of memory.
I know myself.
idle mind…
and the mirror
will take on new faces.
I keep her laughter
in the cherrywood drawer,
on her side of the bed.
her teal lamp has dust...
been off for some time.
sometimes I think I can light it
by intention alone.
and some mornings
I pull the plug,
just to ensure
intentions don’t overrule
logic.
Emily
the sky bruises purple
as dusk catches my pace.
jogging,
running away…
again…
I used to dream
in declarations.
now—
just the hush
the wind
naming me
false,
free.
his shirt
still in my duffel,
wrinkled,
like it held a shape
that won’t let go.
the train hums low
beyond the orchard.
everything moves,
over the pond,
even what swears…
acts as a vibration
in the reeds.
I think...
about this worn path,
the people I pass,
about forgiveness,
time,
love,
and the devil
that keeps showing up
in between.
Will he ever heal…
Can a man carry
what he carries…
Can a woman
compete with the attention
his illness demands…
Elias
I light a match,
not for flame,
but for proof
of something
still catching.
Emily
I pause at the fence,
hands on splinters.
every border begs
to be crossed
or honored.
god, how I want
to do both.
Together
words we never sent
bleed red through the years
through the paper—
running letters,
blown open
in the wind’s quiet mouth.
we meet
in the tremor
between holding on
and letting—
the air knows
our names
by the sound
of leaving.
maybe the pond
doesn’t end—
maybe
it
just
becomes
the
sea.
Elias
empty boxes—
a glass,
red on the rim…
still on the sill.
dress over the chair.
how did it come to this?
I think about the past…
dad’s throw,
the ball through the sun,
his laugh… gone.
mom’s arms,
mom’s hugs,
Christmas lights… gone.
my brother, my mirror,
the one who knew me…
gone.
and now you,
a spark in late life,
and me—
a man of echoes
holding onto smoke.
Emily
the trail should calm me,
but the heat engulfs me.
autumn pretending summer,
heart pretending cool.
I run.
forty-something,
still breaking vows.
left the party dress
the love,
the warmth on my skin.
mom says follow my heart—
god bless her echo.
I run harder.
fox by the brush,
eyes on me like truth.
how many times
can a woman leave
what she wants?
Elias
life—
how it lifts,
then
drills
a
hole
straight through.
Emily
the hill crests,
lungs burn,
sweat turns to prayer.
maybe pain
is the only thing
that stays.
Together
two bodies,
two currents,
each running the other’s absence—
hoping the bend ahead
will finally meet the trail’s end.
It’s raining hard…
There’s a rhythm to it.
My car won’t start
I can stay here…
or see what the day brings
Nerves tell me to stay…
Mother tells me…
"Go for it, son".
Bus ahead…