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she sat there like a photographof someone much further awaywe shared a brief bus stopon one of those inbetween daysshe gave me her smileand I looked underneathat the lipstick on her teethshe asked me for a lightand if I thought her hair looked okaywe grew out of the small talkinto stuff strangers just don't saywe discovered we are bothpleasently furious half of the timewhen we're not just toeing the linewe sat underneath the shelteras the rain came down outsidethe bench was coldagainst the underside of our thighs
I said I think we need new responseseach question's a revolving doorand she said, yeah,my life may not be something specialbut it's never been lived beforewe decided our urgency will wanewhen we grow oldand there will be a new generation of angernew stories to be toldbut I said, I don't know if I can waitfor that peace to be mineand she said, well, you know,we've been waiting for this busfor an awfully long time
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