Pittsburg Greyhound Station, 7AM

The child born in the bus station cried out
something that sounded like rumor,
it was yesterday then but only
the chipping kiwi paint can remember.

We were discussing the flower farms
of dream, as I traded places with her;
the smoke automatic in its quick
cynical switch of direction.

She had been jealous of the Swedish women
in their perfect multi-lingual blonde bodies
swinging birds of paradise from their ear lobes.

Outside, the stained sky
rained the window sideways
sweet talking the Plexiglas into streaking.

In a vain attempt at capturing romanticism
in that night we played love under the made moon,
I follow our footsteps but only find dune
and the skeletons of broken rules
smoothed soft by remembering.

I find myself walking home by moonlight
with heavy pockets full of secrets kept
and the way you make the smallest perfect sense.