Bus Ride
On a bus to NYC
I watched your hands as they looped in and out like
some ancient home remedy that was older than crocheting
and so uncommon for your age it said something about your fashion
that made me want to sit in the aisle and sunbathe in your aura.
I was thinking about trees and color and road
until they overwhelmed my stomach with motion.
I saw you over this woman’s shoulder,
there are always these obstructions and speed bumps
to caution the length of my cynosure like a moral compass.
So, I broke the posted signs with a bent knee and peripheral vision
like a hoodlum casing a store.
Even then there were only bits to be had that were only so gracious
as a turned head or small laugh.
Thank God for reflected image and tempered glass
that would deliver the contours of your hair
so finely combed and those hands;
that danced for me like a Shaman with a little bag.
You talk on your phone in such a kind voice;
I want to pull up the other end of the line like loose carpet fibers
to see where you’re coming from like a place I could piece together in clues
and tack to my wall as collage.
I am so jealous of these people
that hold your conversation like a bank of knowledge
I cannot heist with raised ears.
What are these things they know
like semiprecious stones I would rub in my pocket
as healing crystal, chipping away in secret
thumbnail strikes to find the core?
I am so immersed in this odyssey
I’m losing my sense of self
through tiny brain cells donated to the cause
like those magnetic ribbons making refrigerators of cars.
An oversized coin bank is all that separates my ears
while we ride.
You talk to the girl sitting beside you
but your voice carries and makes a deposit
that only I can count.
The vehicle you have, members of your family, summer plans and a small accident while driving home last weekend chime in my head in different sizes and points of interest
but there is a loud echo I cannot fill from the outside.
I want in, I want to be the scale where you weigh thoughts.
I want to put up the screen where you make word associations
like pipe dream and love life.
I would be a thermal blanket to every negative reinforcement you paint over in the compact mirror like a nike campaign “Cover, girl”.
I want to push up inside you like a male organ and force you to rethink the definition of what fits and who’s yours.
You slept with your feet on the front rails.
The windows were too dark for reflection
once we started moving so, I gave into the hour with heavy eyes
and my heart in sections.
The bus ride was a failed mission, there was not a single word exchanged or implied.
I caught your eyes a couple times, but they were meant for someone else,
maybe I should take that as a sign.
