On The Bus
She swayed with unexpected
Along the pitching bus
Indifferent to the brutal race
Aroused in each of us.
Her cotton dress was of that bare
Beyond unbaring kind –
She pressed against the lucky air
And trailed her scent behind.
She didn’t speak, but we could hear
A lyric siren sing,
And our most lurid dreams were clear
In wild imagining.
You couldn’t hear a sneeze or cough
Among that motley lot
Til moments after she got off –
As we, of course, did not.