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takes the twelve o’five
and wonders once again
to times removed –
a storm is moving in
of other girls
and weekend worlds
who would tell their mother
they’d met a guy
with bedroom eyes
one day

a sold out car
and not too far
to go before the leaving
clouds are gathered now
he understands
of one who waits
the other side
sits the night alone
searching through
the paper –
for memories
of home

for lines
to fit her story
tells she hasn’t told
a touch to bear
– some other hand
to hold

the cold night carries
in wait for words unsaid
joseph sees beyond
the road ahead

with wonder
when he’ll find her
when at last –
the cooling rain
a seat no longer empty
– a want to match
her name

. . .
Author’s Note: Inspired by my continuing fascination
with the ‘while I was waiting for the bus invitational’. Thanks
for the kick, Stephen.