I hear a cheerful shout and pull back the curtain.
Like a spy, I watch him.
He's waiting for the bus; fine!
The bus stop is on the corner, next
to my bedroom window.
Dejected is the spy, yes I, though glorious
is the morning sunlight filtering
through the branches of the trees outside
my cozy apartment.
He's crazy. He's living
in the past. The old fool rubs
his hands together, takes
the invisible baseball bat,
lays it across his shoulder,
talks to a coach only he sees, waiting
on a ghost pitcher, a fast ball
from 40 years ago.
While he, this ragged stranger, is waiting
for the bus that will take him
to the shelter, or the crack house,
or maybe even to his family,
to a child or a woman who loves him
I wait for a bus,
the one I've been waiting
on for a year,
the one that will take
me to the end of my life,
my child, an athlete,
his suicide my ticket.
I smile, a forgotten feeling,
as the stranger,
unaware of me watching
changes sports, cheering.
Years fall away as he jumps
his invisible basketball sailing
through the crisp morning air.