Etch

The bus is late. The rain is a thin

wash of oil over the street.

I lean my head against the plexiglass

and see your name, or a ghost of it,

gouged into the clear shield.

Someone used a key, or a cheap blade,

leaving white, burred edges

where the plastic curled and stayed.

It’s a jagged, frantic kind of love,

the kind that leaves a mess of shavings

on the metal bench below.