BB Grey–musings

she was a fleshing gal,
okay—Ruebeneque,
but I never met a Rueben
I didn’t eat.

she was different.
her Sav-on mascara caked heavy
on her upper left eyelid,
open just a touch wider
than the right.

her lip trembled
when she asked me the time.
“half past ate,” I said.
she smiled like she understood.
I looked down—
respect, or maybe shame.

she sat next to me.

the bus jerked
like an old man getting out of bed,
from low to high
then slouched into the street.

someone pulled the cord—
a stop that usually slipped past.
a man got on
paper bag under one arm,
hat down low
over old, ghosted brows.
he gummed a sentence
to no one,
I swallowed a dry lump,
nodded goodbye.

our legs touched.
mine wrapped in jeans
stiff with dust, sweat, and time.
hers bare—
a sundress
that remembered sun,
forgotten lovers,
or something softer than now.

worked and lounged,
I thought.
which one did what?
no answer.
only:
“Fourth and Broadway!”
bellowed like a hymn.

she rose.
I made a show of standing too—
fool’s chivalry.
she smiled again.
lip quivered.
mascara flaked—
too much hope
in too little time.

her dress caught
high on one side,
her backside offering
a little cheek
to me
and the rest of the tired.

I thought of helping—
pulling it down,
but that felt wrong.

and in the hum of brakes
and flickering fluorescents,
gravity beat out hesitation.

a daisy bloomed
in fabric and memory.
I looked down again.

my stop came.
I didn’t move.
figured the end of the line
might shave enough off me
to make me pass
for fine.

the bus,
the line,
Rueben,
lost time,
flaked mascara,
a mouth too scared to speak,
and me,
watching the floor,
pretending it means
respect.

just some thoughts
from line 451,
the Manhattan direct.
except when it isn’t.