closer

always at a 12:00 bus stop but never quite

on time, his thick brows crunch in scrubbing

arches of animal defense against onlookers,

who disappear into the exhaust fumes and

dry city lights often as quickly as he

moves to ask what time it is. abrupt and

jovial, he wears a sea turtle necklace

and is mistaken frequently for dean stockwell.

fishing in the city park, he finds black

eyed negatives of what once may have been

fishes, seaweed wreaths of broken bottles,

and jagged pieces of electric mirrors washed

ashore by the black clasp of water

and lights overhead. his reflection becomes

more and more dribbled with pondscum,

the veterbrae of the city, as he takes

his place at the bus stop after long

intervals. his vinyl bench, covered in

rougher sonnets by poets of the knife,

moves further back each time i see him,

and at the same time closer as the bus

screeches to a start. further back but

closer to the rain