I remember seeing a woman once 

A few years ago. 

She was riding the 8 am bus in Rome 

From the stealthy apartment complexes 

To the bustling city center.

Her skin folded over itself,

Caressing the bones underneath, 

Carefully protecting its careful protector.

I only saw her for a moment,

But when I did, I locked eyes with her.

The glare of the sun against the 

Plexiglass window of the steaming 

Gas-powered bus 

Obscured the bright color  

Of her eyes. 

But hidden behind her beads of 

pearly sight were vaults.

Vaults of compilations 

Of experiences 

Wisdom

First times

Tiny perfect moments 

And 

heartbreak.

I had traveled 4,279 miles to land in the car 

Across from the woman in 

That bus in Rome.

She watches the grass grow 

And exhales crisp air 

On a different hemisphere than I do.

Yet we share the undeniable participation

in the Great oddity 

Of humanity. 

 

I pitied that woman on the bus 

For her skin wilted away  

before her own eyes 

And her lips eternally pursed 

beneath her nose.

A seemingly ordinary life

beneath an extraordinary shell of a woman.

 

I envied that woman. 

Not for her own sake 

But for my ability to celebrate her 

While incessantly pulsing my foot 

And yanking through the knots 

At the end of my 

Not long enough 

Too dark hair. 

I wish I could appreciate the fountain of youth 

pouring through my skin

Before I sit on the other side of the 

Plexiglass window.