six minutes and counting
21 bus line—door jamb to curb
a panhandles puddled cement
orange juice banging against my thigh
I reached out all breathy and tired
your cool forehead, your hot cheeks
beneath a spiky Mohawk
all fawna and flora
you lie.
milk thistle tears
the glistening kind
full of pin-pricks
we waited and rocked
knees to a chest
