Monday, January 16, 2012

Thoughts on Commuting

The work day over, I step out into the rain,
joined by others to splash down the drive to meet our bus.
We crowd into its spare warmth where
the smells of fifty or so other damp people
curl and settle in the surrounding air.
I turn inward, gazing out the window
where the raindrops meld into rivulets,
their paths turning the evening light into
Jackson Pollock paintings.

As raucous chatter builds around me
I turn to thoughts of my unwitting muse,
a man who inspires tender pleasures
known only to myself, unshared.
Standing in the middle of the room,
full of people, the muse remains a shadow,
mystery formed from wisps of secrets --
Is he as kind as he is funny and smart?

I recall the outline of his shoulders beneath his shirt
and wonder if his skin is smooth.
Does he have much hair or a little gut?
Sometimes I can feel the heat from his body,
Its warmth luring me in to his smell, inviting
exploration, touch, a banquet of seductions.

As the recorded voice on the bus
calls out street names and stops,
"Golden. Hill. Court. Stop requested."
I hear the muse's calm voice
speaking of poetry, of Fresnel lenses
in lighthouses and Eskimo dogs -
He talks of art and makes me a pornographer.

Again, the bus's voice speaks, the doors open
and we re-enter the rainy night.
Beneath my pink umbrella, 
I smile to myself as I join the silvery mist
and continue home.

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