POEM- "and they sat there waiting"

and they sat there waiting

published in Stanford University's "Black Arts Quarterly" 

so he was a man without a car

frugal and inexact as

the reality of bus schedules

and he was wearing an old tee shirt

something about california on it

small holes fretting near the collar

the worn sleeve about to tassle and sing

and his nameless jeans generic as

the day the pedestrians the vendors

and the requisite calico of loitering faces

 

the volume of her hair

pulled over her shoulder

like she was waiting for a lover

to come and kiss her

as if he had said “wait here, baby/don’t move baby”

and had run to get the phone

and she did what he said

stood at the mirror how he wanted her

without error

feeling beautiful pushing her hips forward

trying not to be forward

but wanting so much

 

she looked soft as

a memory of water and dusk

made me think of diego rivera

how would he see her?

would she be the queen of a country

a revolution spinning and cursing toward her

would there be songs about her?

mariachis on the verge of tears

her dark eyes looking inward at a private sky

maybe, if diego rivera rode busses los angeles

and saw her waiting with the world in fresco behind her

 

but no

her country is this bus depot

and the few unkempt streets leading here

these transportation commission tile murals

the freeway exchanges and their shadows

weeds that conquer concrete

and extend toward god

her memory someplace a language ago

coming north to this impersonal country

this country without festivals

 

and the male next to her said something

she looked up and smiled

he let a leg sprawl out

then tucked it back in

she followed his story

laughed

nudged his shoulder and

he came back laughing

 

and they sat there waiting

a coke between them

the day adrift in the world

like a rumor of sleep

the long gasoline afternoon 

its hemispheres of clear windows

beyond the city in sifting panes of sun

everything north bright into the sky

somewhere out there in

the lull of an alley

the ornate quiet of roses

blooming in the grate of chainlink fences

before the cans are collected

and the rattle of the cart

presses the day back into sound

at the gentle hand of jazz

a jet searching the ionosphere

glints into the subconscious

they were waiting

 

he picked up the soda and drank

it was strong

and when he was through

she did the same

he continued to talk

evenly like an early catholic guitar

she turned her face full to see him

as if he was the only thing flowering in the world

 

was the coke his or hers?

they both seemed content

busses occasionally

filling the structure with sound

i read their advertisements

i watched their wheels turn

oh, the beautiful leaning of busses

it was my thirst wondering vaguely

a memory i carry of water and august

 

his spanish slowed looking at her

she was beautiful

i saw it too and was lost

he reached and touched her hair

she let him

and smiled

closed her eyes

and smiled

and let him

 

his face was gentle

no malice anywhere for miles

he touched her again and she remained

authenticated and round

as when the sun god ra

seeing the world was barren

touched earth and became all things

he touched her and became constituent to

the warm ripe country of her young body

 

and in the disappearance of the transit mall

he touched her again

lingered at her chin

i thought he would lean

and kiss her full

then recline wealthy

chanting speaking in tongues

dreaming of fruit

but he lingered respectfully

a city at the edge of the ocean

 

soon the starling will be rising

moving toward the early moon

hours now since that couple gathered their things

and boarded a city bus

no more opera busses going back out into the sun

only shadows now and the thinning day

more blue than earth now

an occasional hurrying someone

too far away to call to

the custodians are beginning their business

as the last of the busses turn into port

one bus blues

one bus mauves and oranges

then a quiet bus of stars