On a day like this

When bus number 144 was late and filled

With souls half alive or awake

From the day’s labor or the impossible concoction of sweat and cigarettes

Inside, where I could hardly stand

I gave

My handwritten notebook to the girl sitting by the window side

Smiling, as the droplets of rain trickled down her face through

the curves of her eyes

Cheeks

And lips and then

Through her neck and into the space

Between her breasts

I saw how

She didn’t notice that the rain also fell on my book

And the notes faded with blotted ink that

Blotched her pink dress

She didn’t care about it all.

Now, on days like this

I take that blotted notebook out

From a rusty old cupboard and tell

A story to my grandchildren about how

I gave it to a girl in a bus that ran late and knew

I was in love

I am still. I will remain forever

With her.

With their grandmother.