T o n y   P r e s s
O n   t h e   L a t e   B u s

ahead of me

on the late bus to Bristol

the woman leaned her head

upon the rain-smeared window

and surrendered herself to sleep

I was reading,

no, fighting through

a novel an ex had given me,

when grace feathered my hands

wisps of a ponytail,

the ends of ten golden inches,

kissed my book-cradling fingers

I held pose

as if meditating

until her awakening