They Rode the Night Bus
They rode the night bus across the desert, Insects tattooing the windshield, Invisible coyotes Howling In the distance. They rode in quiet, cold seats, Sun-stained baseball caps tilted low, Duffel bags between their feet, Looking out the windows because they couldn’t sleep, Nothing to see but black tar and belts of stars. They rode the night bus across the desert From Puebla to Vegas, Lights to lights and Black in the middle, Black desert, The same desert They walked on since they were kids, Hiding from their dads and laughing At the pretty gringas Who never had to ride across the desert. They rode the night bus across the desert Because it was the only job to do.
Non Credea Mirarti
Sitting in the park – Our park – today, I heard an aria on my playlist That I vaguely remembered hearing once in your car: A lost soprano of the twentieth century Singing Bellini, Her voice soaring, pirouetting, And as I listened, I looked up the libretto and Thought of the story you once told me Of your father’s life as a somnambulist And his nightly trips around the house, Bumping into furniture, Half-cooking omelets in the kitchen, Getting lost in the closets, And I laughed out loud in the park. I wanted to call and tell you How much joy that brought to me, When I remembered that it was a Tuesday, And you were at work, far too busy to talk.
