I ride beside you in the jolting bus,
And at the contact of your arm, your hand,
Exhilaration surge beyond command
And sweep o’er me, between the two of us,
Above the hiss of traffic and the fuss
O’er fare and change of passengers, a bond
Of oneness that I cannot understand,
Seems forged, amid vulgarity and cuss.

Perhaps it is that we’re wayfarers both
Upon the road, a symbol of our life
To destinations which we may not reach,
As though in transit you had been my wife,
And thus it is that leaving you I’m loth,
And I alight reluctant as brakes screech.

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