I was reading,
I often do,
Bus wheels crunch over gravel
And I’m thinking of you,
The heave of your chest as you came,
Your arms that held like I was going to slip away,
I turn the page, read on,
“I’m in room 103,” she says to a stranger,
“But business don’t start ’till five o’clock,”
Toothily is how she smiles,
And my mouth’s agape as she gets off,
Bus beep-beeping as the special platform lowers,
She enters the Yale Hotel, and I know
I’ll be visiting a hooker in a wheelchair tonight.