Oakland’s Waterfront Takes Center Stage at PortFest 2003
Oleta Adams to Star at PortFest 2003
Grammy-Winning Oakland Interfaith Choir on PortFest 2003
Bay Crossings Journal
Bay Crossings Poetry
Freeway Service Patrol Logs 1 Million Assists
Wine Festival by the Bay
How Do Bus Drivers Feel About Golden Gate’s Financial Problems?
Paving the Way for Buses – The Great GM Streetcar Conspiracy
Port of Call: Cayenne, French Guyana
Opening of Argonaut Hotel in San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park
Changing of the Guard at San Francisco’s Last Shipyard
The Port Of Oakland Needs Your Help!
Taste of Oakland
East Bay French-American School To Host Annual "La Place Du Marche"
What the AC Transit Bus Driver Knows
The Iraq war reader
Judge Orders Carnival Cruise Line to Stop Illegal Dumping
On the Oakland Waterfront, Seafarers Club Breaks New Ground
Year of the Salmon!
WTA: For Whom the Bridge Tolls
New Ferry Building Sunday Garden Market Opening May 4th
San Francisco Bay
Vermeer Chocolate Martini
Oakland Arts Focus
Music Calendar - May 2003
In appreciation: David Clark
Water Transit Authority  WTA

What the AC Transit Bus Driver Knows

By Lenore Weiss

The driver knows we all get on at different stops

carry things in our arms or back-packed in a canvas lump, lunches we will eat later at work, newspapers, CDs, a thermos, survival packs swung over a shoulder

as we climb the stairs to our favorite seat

hoping it’s empty, the one nearest the door,

in the back, or on the Bay side of the bus

where water, swirling in its own blues,

soothes our two-cupped caffeined minds;

The driver knows we are all headed somewhere,

different corners of the world, to be sure, but corners, nonetheless,

there is a grid, somewhere there’s a place for us,

or maybe not, which is its own place,

dunking our passes in the firebox,

then inserting them back inside their jackets until next time; we do have that much in common as we begin the ride

in earnest, some unfolding a cell phone, dialing

to reestablish contact with the home office.

The driver knows the headway between our entrances

and exits, how we’ve bagged a bargain

tucked in a package beneath the seat,

three of something for $1.00, even better,

dinner in a Styrofoam for two;

behind a wheel, a driver watches how each day

issues forth volunteers from a sidewalk,

and out come pouring forth stories

giving shape to our madness, which he hears.

Husbands, boyfriends, grandmothers,

uncles, sisters, brothers, wives,

none are strangers, not even the homeless guy who gets on

at 53rd and says he belongs to no one,

spends the next 20 minutes talking to voices

inside his headphones;

the driver knows the man belongs to the bus, a traveler camouflaged by other travelers, even

when he yanks the bell to get off.