5.30.17

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

ghost.

written at 1:20 at night, in my kitchen, in Agoura Hills CA, while waiting for something to cool off.