BUS RIDE
Stepping into a bus thick with winter coats, I push to the back because
my feet hurt and there's always a seat in back if you're willing to be
touched. Back of the bus with the tough boys, the rough hands, the make
believe forest of twisted trunks. I sit in the middle of three. All
the back riders watch the Big One, he's pulling on the sleeve of mister
J. J, tell him, J tell him about the time I threw it out the window. J
is on with Blonde Boy trying to crank out a laugh. Blonde Boy sits,
nervous on the edge of his seat, wrapping his hands with invisible
cloth, jerking his head in a silent downbeat. J takes out a tin of mints
and passes out communion. I am invisible. Big One shouts: Why don't
we get off here? Don't your father live here? He points the words to
Blonde Boy who shakes his head, tells the bus a bible thumping story
from last night when the pop met him at the door with hard hands, and
words of blue rage. That’s not tonight. Tonight is going to be
everything. Everything as long as Blonde Boy wants and can. Now
there's laughing about the Big One, how he can get anything and so quick
and Blonde Boy says don't ask him how. The bus driver is calling out
stops like a forgotten priest. Seats empty into the dark. One more
stop for me. One wishbone tug beyond this ride.
PASSING
What if it was you who turned on the light
in that shabby window I drove past tonight?
It was only a lamp, no face. I know it wasn’t you.
Yet the thought did occur. The image - a sober flash -
passed quickly. I know where you are. But then
down the street, a figure among those that stand
in line at the church shelter, where the rain melts all the dark
colored clothing into one easily missed mass of dreary -
just for an instant, something looked familiar.
I know where you are, or at least where you were:
with friends, in a room, the heat is on. Knowing
it is not you I don’t need to dwell on this now.
anymore than I consider who wears the sweater
I sent off in the yellow bag or eats the cans of food
the kids took to school for the drive. It is not you.
That is what matters. The rest is separate.
CUTTING MY HAIR
I step to the mirror, stare straight into my eyes
and watch my hand bring the scissors
up beside my ear to manage one first cut
into my hair. A shower of wisps falls off into a next life.
That hair I cut is hair you touched.
Since you left, imperceptibly it grew down
toward ground. The scalp pushing. The ends reaching.
Now in reflection that hair, falling.
An uncertain stylist, I am Delilah with herself.
My hands are blackbirds rising from the field,
flying, random, to the exact before-and-after line
they find even through the raggedness.
WANDER
Thinking you are in love alone,
(sololanguishing)
Fate,
that cupidnarian shaman, leads you
into a wander
which, not uncommonly
ends in a dizzy stumble upon this one
you love,
unprepared
and suddenly
high voltage
heat waves, crisscrossing
suction
as your bodies pass too close
and your whole insides
feel the jimmershivers
while your outside
feigns a cool
bloomysterious pose
and you hope some limperious dust
will float
down
like a seasoning
of temptonic attraction,
become an
impskittery veil
that trails
flowblowblushingly behind
as you glance back, spyshyly, from the corner.