by William Gilson

A Burger King near the Greyhound station
in the morning, music syrup'd
thru the ceiling. There's a certain
angled look to the people
out on the street, how they
lean forward into their day,
as if tugged backward
by their lives.
My bus leaves at 10, and now
the trouble's with the coffee. I lean
over the New York Times, trying
to make it make sense. She'll
drive me crazy. Who's she
gonna be with while I'm gone,
and why? Her hair was newly trimmed.
My body, now as I lift this cup,
wants to shape itself to hers.

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