Poetry

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’d like to think of some soft-bellied spring
Where you’re so filled with novel scents and cliché afternoon admirations
that you never need to speak.
Where you are spinning images in synchronization with your
coffee spoon and watching them circle beneath you.
Where you fixate only upon the reappearance of the sun
and its