While waiting for
Bus fifty-six near
Elizabeth Station,

I watched as two
young lovers kiss a-
misdst the crowded sidewalk.

The man in the
Calvin Klein coat was
rather tall and bent in

a right angle,
like the street light there,
as he kissed the cherry

scented pillows
on her creamy face—
no, her face was more like

a boiled cup of
mocha iced coffee
spilling on a beige wall.

She tried to tip-
toe with her blunt boots;
she was like a “balanced”

ballerina
on a snowy Broad-
way stage in a cracked dome.

He had a five
o’ clock shadow that
faded into the gray

scarf around his
lean, toothpick-like neck;
like graphite smudged on my

oily fingers.
They kissed like pigeons
fighting for the same crumb.

The man: a lamp;
the woman: a top
reaching its final spin.

If it weren’t
for his arms, she
would have fell on her cute,

plump, little ass
and would have landed
perfectly on dog shit.

(I noticed it
after some other
guy stepped on it and cussed.)