The Bus

July 23, 2014

We hit a hard left,
and you pushed hard
into me.
I didn’t look,
but I could smell
L’air du Temps
dawdling as you took your seat.

You seem so far away
as we go home,
like that grocer who
asked about my day
last week—
my first friend in months.
Still, I can’t get up the cheek
to ask about the other seat.

There’s always an empty seat,
an empty stare in a streetlamp.
I want to be the guy
who could buy you anything
if you asked,
but I’m no cultured man.

So, I jump off the bus we were riding
and run as fast as my legs go
to the next stop,
there’s nothing like the touch
from knee to knee.

I find the stomach to deny
the building urge you have to ask
if I was the man from before,
the man from the streetlamp,
but the mystery’s gone again.

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