the transit provides a variety
of faces, and busses to places
where no one has seen,
where no one has been.

it is here i met this nomad
with holes in her skin (but not in her soul)
and enlightened me to my gift-
and implored me to open the doors-
my doors-
to the world.

these words, like a rush of joy
hit me like her pale white skin-
oh, so fair.
she reached to my face, with
that quizzical melancholy smile-
and touched my hair-
and far deeper than she could know.

perplexed, i wonder what this all means-
but, i smile and nod, returning the grace
she placed on me.

the grunge of the walkways
on the citybus transports-
has embraced her backpack
and aches to keep a part of it there
(as do i wish the same for her)

but, sure enough, bag closed in her grips,
i can barely read off her lips:
fare the well, till we are dead-
i shall meet you there once again.
that melancholy grace once more
donned her face-
and she walked to her haven of the street.

03/29/2003

Author's Note: adapted from ryan bailey's poem, 'pierced girl'...

Posted on 03/29/2003
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams