And Then This Happens
The crazy love fly roamer under the whip
Of spring turns the corner and I’m standing
Along the edge of the bus zone so many of us
Find infuriating with the bus not coming and not
Coming in this atmosphere of waiting where
The trajectory of love’s crazy fly-by pitch is right
In my face until it takes all I have to resist.
So I don’t. I’m in, lounging on the cusp of go-go
And let-let then the open-armed tickle of it.