poem
I saw you Tuesday at the bus stop,
sitting underneath a tree
that must have been green
before the summer crop
was taken. Hidden by your
bangs you watched a book
write pictures for your eyes.
I watched you from a back seat
waiting for your stop. But when
it came, I must have feared the rain
outside, or you must have enjoyed it,
because the ninety route drove on without your ticket.
I painted what...
