trans*, a true story (thanks to sts) by dc

One Sunday afternoon,
I was riding the 86th Street crosstown bus
home from the Upper West Side, ...
with a takeout box of hot juicy grilled chicken on my lap
I'd bought at Poulet Take-a-Way on Columbus Avenue.

Then I noticed a guy--believe me, when you've seen
as many drag queens in my life as I have,
and especially in broad daylight on the bus on a bright Sunday afternoon, black and gold homecoming dresses 2018
you know that it's a guy--
dressed in a frumpy grandmotherly housedress, with ill applied makeup
spread on a face that was so full of fear it dripped on the floor.
And her wig? Well, to be charitable, it needed to be dealt with.

I ran through the possibilities in my head.
Gay? Drag queen? Transgendered? Lost a bet?
But you know, none of that mattered.
All I wanted to do was to shoo off her seatmate,
take his hand in mine, and say "Honey"--
God calls me that sometimes too, so its ok--
"Honey, you need some help here."

I wanted her to find a friend to help him
choose a wardrobe that didn't make her an Auntie Em,
that would teach her how to apply the eye shadow to make
his eyes sparkle, and gloss to make her lips oh, so kissing soft.
And the hair. Well, we'd have to start all over with that.

In short, I wanted him to be a star. A trans*.
I wanted her to ride that bus like she owned it,
with a face reflecting hope and love and rejoicing,
making all the rest of us ordinary farepayers feel fortunate and blessed
that we caught THIS bus THIS day, and give us a glorious story to tell,
about the Sunday afternoon we shared the bus with the trans*.