I think of you on Bus 28 as doors unfold
for twenty people and I'm gandering
at anyone who hears the pit orchestra play,

running out to meet you in the rain —
how Jean Harlow beyond brown car,
savory makeup and hair dye — I kissed

an eye's low corner and the tide rolled,
a panther among ganders, up shore
to find the latest heart's desire,

or to peel windows and hear the nervous
noise of people living flush
on one of any town's main three streets —

Anderson, Juliette, or Main. We tongued
the rain into a movie, an aphrodisiac
slung out of the car, while other cars

filled with people who never understood
the wet we wore for three carpeted hours,
Harlean Carpenter's no more.

This may seem silly all of a sudden
to some, but words, and we, don't stop
instead they become, become, become.