Some Notes on What Happened at the Bus Stop

Magician shop, post op
and the Transverse Theory.
French girls smoke cigarettes
and candy smoke fills our lungs, but
our colors are lonely, huddled from cold sunshine.

She kisses. He wipes his lips.

Diesel fuel is bearable under the shade,
like polka-dotted hunchbacks, bro
--fist pumpin fist bump--
speak California drawl to me.

Queer bus stops and pitched
assaults on three bones all
cease with a question.

It's scrunch time inside this drafty bullet
so get ready to answer or scoot.

When is our last day

-geoff.