November chill hits as the bus pulls away,
Her warmth absent now from my arms,
Tale of one city but two schools.
I pass a group of four hoody’ed guys,
One slurs, “I like all the little shops.”
10 am and already stoned, life on 21st.
I can still taste her mouth: lipstick,
Coffee, toothpaste. Flavors of
The morning spent with her.
The “Don’t Walk” sign flashes orange,
I pause and wait at the curb,
Everyone stops and waits with me.
I say “Good Morning” to the homeless man
Pushing his shopping cart down Everett,
He rings the bike bell on his cart in reply.
She looks to be wearing only a hoodie
And sandals as she walks her dog,
Her bare legs drawing my eyes.
The “Don’t Walk” sign flashes orange,
I walk out into the street,
After a second everyone follows.
My backpack digs into my shoulder,
Weighed down with books,
Aftermath of a stop at Powell’s.
I can still smell her on me,
Her jacket spritzed with perfume,
Holding her tight against me.
She bends over to pet her dog
Shorts now visible beneath her hoodie
Fascination with her legs is lost.
The “Walk” sign flashes white,
I stop and do not cross,
There is confusion around me.