|Jul/Aug 2001 • Poetry • Special Feature|
On Market St. in Denver
I am still waiting for the 209,
as two girls chasing nothing
in particular run by on the walk
paralleling this stop's bench.
I'd say they're beautiful,
but my brother would say,
"God, they're so fat."
I'd say their hair is flowing,
but my last girlfriend would say,
"Ugh, they should cut it off!"
I'd say anything (nice) at all, in fact,
if those two girls had just stopped
and faced me.
But sitting here, espresso hot
and in hand, afraid to spill,
I'm only able to whisper nothings
as they disappear around the corner of Eighth.