The big, solar-powered buffalo
roared down 16th street and
screeched to a stop. “Senior
all day pass, please.” “Changer

broken; get the pass when you
transfer.” “Will do.” “How are
you, Native American man,
Lakota from South Dakota rid-

ing the range up from the ashes?
I was with you at Wounded Knee
and heard the cries and saw the
eyes and the one lone rifle placed

in your grandfather’s hand in
the snow. You know?” “I heard
those same cries, bro.” “How are
you, Romanian man, on your way

to tear down the stand you put up
last week at the US Open?”
“Thanks for the ride.” The buffalo
roared down Roosevelt Road

and ‘whoa-ed’ to a stop. “Senior
all day pass, please.” “Three
bucks; let’s see the proof.”
“Surely, you spoof. Okay,

here you go.” 3rd street — time
to meet my buddy for some
coffee at the sidewalk café
and we shouted above the

roar of all the buffalo stamp-
eding while heeding every
raised hand — “Whoa” at every
bus stop in the desert today.