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WAITING FOR THE BUS AT MIDNIGHT
from In the Talking Hours (2004)

A lamppost of finger-streams,

the moon puffs a cloud

past ghosts of autumn, slips down

in a moment's cue and kicks

its muddy shoes and dusty bottom

dry of the night serein.

The act begins. A willow

sags to the steps, kneeling

where the town hall clock whispers

sermons to the monk, drunk

with Sunday talk. Crickets lying

in the mist settle to their pillows.

Only the car wakes, screaming

as the dog wags its tail

along the center stripe; bitterns

brag indifference to the star

and teenage lead, wearing slacks

too tight and dreaming

who sometimes, when she tiptoes

up to meet his tongue, stretches worlds

apart her buttocks, round, hypnotic.

She does not hear my breathing

but lips her lines so boldly

spinsters in bough-tressed windows,

like tramps, crippled by the cold,

see the smile, the rippled silhouette

of forms at rest, yet do not hear

his swoon stagger through the sweat

beneath her breast. I strain

to watch the drama hands unfold

and kiss her neck, its naked moles

like speckled dunes or shadows

stippled on the moon while he, flipping the coin

head and tails, saddles the bench like Brando,

vacant, and overplays the role.

"Waiting for the Bus at Midnight" © 2004 James Ragan
from In the Talking Hours, Figueroa Press - U.S.C. (4th printing), 2004

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