He was the Number 14, a bus ride
down Hastings one way, strung
with blinking lights and sparks
of trolleys unhooked, headed
to Arbutus, the salt lick of ocean,
tongues swollen to lap up the whole thing.

He was chain-links around the marina,
winches loosed by wind, rigging
played against spar and mast like chimes
frothed into a frenzy. He was the main stay
snapped and boom slammed into the dock,
light splintered on black water.

– Rosnau, Laisha, from “He was the Number 14,” Lousy Explorers, ©2009, Nightwood Editions.

I read this literally on the bus today. It was the 14. It had the expected effect: my jaw dropped open a little, I stared, and I blushed a little.