Lapse

The Greyhound is late. I've been fast
asleep too long to know why, but the man
beside me - Chinese - tells me what time it is.

He turns to the back-lit maze of his phone, taps
a geometry of buttons, gets lost in an exchange
about auditions and lost opportunities. I look

across the aisle: the big guy with the Yankees
cap has struck up a dialogue with the Polish
woman beside him. Her dark eyebrows arch -

an eager pair - in synch under her blond hail; I can
tell she's open; so is he, but he's fearful, hasn't
yet learnt the curved asymmetry of lust. There is

already a lapse between her keenness, his lean
and the speed of his initiative. Somebody should
tell him that if the lapse grows any longer

the door of chance will close - snap in
his face. It's already too late. The bus is
drifting into Harlem , Connecticut a distant memory:

I hear him say excuse me, he calls his Mom. A pink
rose blooms on the woman's cheek, she looks
outside. I hang my head, exhale, and close

my eyes. The man beside me snaps his phone shut.