"Met you not with my true love," is the way I
Would like to speak to those
Who have a saintly look,
The evidence of an aura,
Nimbus, or halo would assist,
As these rarities
Unboard the bus at the police-watched bus station.
With its ghosts
Of shoeshine boys and real estate men
Wearing a white-dotted red band around
A Panama hat.
It is well known that those with saintly proclivities
Never ride the rare trains that carry human passengers
Any more. [I add
This comment for those who intrude with interrogation.]
We had, my love that which was somewhat quasi true
And I, a pilgrim without the New England Puritan
Costume of black and white lace tumbling
Down from the neck, the black cowboy hat
Expect the top, not a dome, but flat, or the affectations
Of the au courant dandy, body shirt, faded blue jeans
Torn at each knee, and an equilateral triangle tear
Where the buttocks was once concealed in polite
Entourages, plus snakeskin boots with the snakekin
Being simulated from plastic,
A radical singular type of love that led inevitably to
Saying, "Thank you" several times
During the occurrence of the severance.
We once exchanged African folk tales,
Prepared soy bean and kale drinks,
Mimicked St. Francis taming the Wolf at Guibbo,
Compared Cordelia with Orphelia,
Pretended we were Coyote man and Coyote woman,
Played we were
A shaman and a shawoman
Who a had penchant
For daydreaming we were riding camels.
My vigil today at the bus station was futile,
A saintly look,
I could say,
"Met you not with my true love."