we are waiting in the rain
for the bus to take us someplace.
two of us, this woman and me
sitting with a space between us
on the bench, listening
to the whisper of jazz
leaking out of the deli
acrosss the street. I have nothing.
I have nothing but this watch
on my wrist, and the expectation
that me and this woman will
make love one day, or that we should
be doing it already
while waiting for the bus.
She will not look at me.
She reminds me of my mother’s
written at 1:20 at night, in my kitchen, in Agoura Hills CA, while waiting for something to cool off.