The Schedule

The clock says four and the air is still.

In the dream, she was standing by the curb

where the asphalt turns to sand.

She had her ticket in her hand

and that yellow coat I haven't seen in years.

It was folded on the bench, perfectly dry,

while the rain came down in sheets.

I wanted to tell her the route was closed.

I wanted to say the driver had gone home.

But I just watched her checking her watch

over and over until I woke up.