At the bus stop, a boy making noises
like a man who never learned to leave such
nonsense behind; young woman turned,
lips pressed, one hand to hip, one
hand to God I do not know him.

Children walk in the street to shelter from the
sunlight; one ducks through the hedge to the track,
picks a rock, eyes the rolling stock;
his arm is small and far away.

You drive too close; your hand could shoot from
your unrolled window, grab my wrist, wring out
your pounding frustration at What He Has Done.

I roll on, legs of lead, heart of stone, gathering
no moss. My loss.

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