Friday, November 25, 2005

Tangerine Dream

This Man, That Woman

. . . . . They send clandestine smiles across the plaza,
this man, that woman. They are still new
to one another. Her husband suspects

nothing. His wife is not so sure, and her
suspicion hisses like steam rising from
the city's sewers all around him.
It is like a yellow stain on a white shirt,
like underserved praise for a two-bit actor
who killed himself in a parking garage

and whose fingers retain the citrus smell
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . of a peeled orange.

. . . . . A beautiful young Jewess travels by
bus, wears square shoes, thick stockings, her hair tied
tight, like wool, bound beneath a scarf. She is

happy to have a seat to herself, sits
alone, stares through a window at the
drudgery of an endless highway, dreams

of a future marriage and a rabbinical scholar
she kissed goodbye. She is in America,
on a bus now. Suddenly, she understands
that things will never be the same. As the
bus turns into its terminal point she perceives
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the scent of citrus.