gifts.

the blue light of the bus shelter summons the ghosts inside you.
the near biblical sound of snow; sleeping rain, shifting on the sidewalk.
we take the bus when we want to drink
or when we want to experience new people.
we take the longest route home
and watch the snow fall
and the people talk.

(grace me with a small plant that i can tell to grow
and i’ll be happier than with a thousand dollars in a card.)

and i take the bus to have silence and solace.
gift me with a last-line bus ride at one in the morning
and i’ll spill all my secrets.
i’ll write poems about the snow and be grateful.
listen to how an alone man sighs
on the bus at one in the morning.
you’ll be grateful.

(grace me with the sunrise over the golf course in our backyard
and i’ll be happier than with shiny new countertops in the kitchen)

you know how ghosts come out at one in the morning,
but you also know how they come out not from graves, but from the living.
the ghosts come out from the men at the bar
and the grateful people on the bus.
that have no better gift

than a sigh at one in the morning.