Poet of Journeys, Time, and Transit
Michael Spence is an American poet who drove public-transit buses in the Seattle area for thirty years, retiring on February 14, 2014. His city-level vantage—engines humming, neon on rain—shapes much of his work. Before his transit career, Spence earned a B.A. in English from the University of Washington and served as a junior officer aboard the USS John F. Kennedy (CV-67).
Spence’s poetry captures the transient beauty of daily encounters—passengers boarding a late-night bus, the hum of the engine beneath quiet contemplation, and echoes of history intertwined with the present.
Michael Spence received a Creative Writing Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts in 1990. His work has appeared in journals including The Hudson Review, North American Review, Poetry, The Yale Review, and The New Criterion. His collection Umbilical won The New Criterion Poetry Prize.
For inquiries, interviews, or literary events, please reach out via linebreaks@msn.com.
THE HOLLOW BARGAIN
I am the bargain struck
By the four gods—water,
Earth, wind, and fire;
The result of their ache
To walk this world alive.
Joining, we make five.
Knives for fingers, the gods
Open with space every part
Of my body. My heart
Is hollow for blood,
My sculpted throat turns air
To voice, and dreams flare
In the cave of my skull.
I stand where elements cross,
Shaped by the emptiness
Forming the bones of a gull
For flight; holding—like a shell
Its pearl—the ring of the bell.
(first published in Poetry and The Spine)
FIRST LOVE IN TWO DIMENSIONS
Wandering through palmettos and scrub pine
In Sarasota, I find the magazine
Buried in the sand of the lot next door.
I exhume it. Careful not to tear
The pages stiff and crackling as dead leaves, I drink
In every picture, reverent as a monk
Poring over his parchment. It’s Christmas
In July, and there at the center—unwrapped as
A present from a gift box—lies the woman.
The breath of a boy is small; since she has none,
She takes all of mine. A triptych of desire
Held by two staples where her underwear
Isn’t, she dries out my mouth. At Holy Cross
Junior High, the priest warned my all-male class:
The fires of hell rise to consume forever
Any who think impure thoughts. I grow hotter
The more I stare, seeing her lips smile
Yes to things I don’t know how to ask. I feel
My heart thudding so loud I’m sure that soon
I’ll burst into flame. Burying her again,
I’m as cautious as a pirate—
Ten paces west of a Spanish bayonet.
Through summer, between swimming and fireworks,
I come back to let her strike the sparks
That will burn away my childhood. Though ash
May be all I’m left with from the rush
Of those days, beneath its layers the embers
Lie with her. I still feel them smolder.
(first published in Poetry and The Spine)
DARKEN SHIP
At night, to keep the enemy
From spotting us, our lights dimmed red:
An ember's color which at sea
Won't travel far. My recruiter had said
The camaraderie of the sailors
And sights I'd see would give me tales
For home. But on my carrier—
A ship huge as a glacier of steel--
Who could even meet the whole crew?
To watch the stars, I'd step out
On the port quarter: the place we threw
Our garbage overboard. That night,
As I lounged in a far corner,
Someone backed onto the ledge.
I need more time! he cried. Two other
Shadows pushed him to the edge.
I yelled--two shapes stiffened to ice,
The third halfway over the rail.
The red lights, smudging each face,
Made comrades of us all.
(first published in The American Scholar and Crush Depth)
UNDERTOW
I’m running down the corridors,
Late for my watch on the bridge,
For captain’s mast, for General Quarters.
It’s winter, my face frigid:
Why is my uniform tropical white?
Down the passageways
Of shadowless fluorescent light
I gasp, but the view stays
Unchanged—a tunnel of painted steel.
I’m yelling: I did my time—
And I resigned! This can’t be real!
But all the ladders I climb
Now lead to where the lifeboat is stored.
The PA speakers blast:
Man overboard! Man overboard!
The boat’s being lowered. I’m last
To grab a ratline and clamber in.
My grip slips on the line—
I hit the water. And wake: my skin
Slick with the old brine.
(first published in The New Criterion)
EMISSARIES OF THE SUNLESS HOURS
They board his bus near midnight. He knows
These three are trouble: leather jackets black
With rain and woven from the dark, the studs
Of metal glinting randomly as stars.
The one who comes on first is thin but tall,
Hair blue as lapis, face pale as the fangs
The driver’s pretty sure are porcelain.
As sure as he is this trio will stiff him. Coins
Sliding like liquid from his fingers, the Goth
Looks at him: May I please have a transfer, sir?
The driver waits for something more smart-ass
As he hands him one. Bluehair nods: Thank you.
Polite as well, the other two follow him
To the bench seat in the back. I won’t go near
That seat, an older woman told the driver
This evening—that’s where all the assholes sit.
In the rearview he sees a guy in a ball cap
And Husky sweatshirt (the driver’s alma mater)
Grin and shake his head as the three pass,
Saying something to a girl across the aisle.
She ignores him, the wire to her earbuds
Trembling like a birfurcating vine
In a breeze as her head shakes to a private tune.
The bus goes by another dozen stops
Before the bell rings. Ball Cap gets up,
Leaning down as if to talk to her again,
Then snatches at her iPod. She yelps, clinging
To the thing while he growls: Gimme that, bitch!
The driver’s calling the cops when he hears and feels
A thud through his boot soles. The tall Goth
Has tackled Ball Cap in the aisle, his friends
Piling on, pinning him down. Give it back!
The thin one says as the other two twist
Ball Cap’s arms behind him till he squeals.
Bluehair hands the device to the girl; her hand
Shakes as she takes it. Now lemme up! yells
The thief. Soon as the cops arrive, says the Goth,
Looking up at the driver. Right, sir?
The driver nods, grinning: From now on, any time
You take my bus, you guys ride for free.
(first published in The Hudson Review and The Bus Driver's Threnody)
GLAD
I’m glad that there’s this bus: my DUIs
Mean someone else has gotta drive, surprise.
To get to work by taxi’d cost a ton.
A bike? You seen how many bikes get run
Down on these roads? And I’d need to pedal an hour
Each way, most likely during a downpour
In the freezing dark. I used to think that losers
Were the only ones who caught the bus. Like boozers
Way worse than me—the kind who can never find
Their fare. The driver oughta leave the bastards behind.
Some people tell me they ride to save on gas
And parking fees. Others are tired of the ass-
Hole NASCAR wannabes on the freeway.
I guess I’d say most of us here are okay.
One day I sat behind these two old guys—
So white, I swear, like a vampire’d sucked `em dry.
One said all gloomy-sounding: A former duchess
Of Westminster said anyone seen in a bus
Over the age of thirty has been a failure.
The other shrugged: Let’s give it one more year.
Then they laughed like my buddies at a kegger.
The redhead came on that day—I wanted to beg her
To go out with me, the way I used to
When I got wasted. But I held off. I knew
Slow was how to take it: my last girlfriend
Dumped me because I was a weird blend
Of pushy/needy. Late that night the cop
Who stopped and breathalyzed me said: You top
My record for drunkest pull-over. Bye-bye,
License. This morning I caught the redhead’s eye—
She smiled, though she was talking on her cell,
So I can’t really be sure. What if I tell
Those old guys’ story to her? Would she laugh?
But not today: yeah, don’t give her even half
A reason to bolt. Might have a chance, you know?
Maybe she’ll get on my bus tomorrow.
(first published in Rattle)