Thirty minutes in, Sentinel beckoned below the hill.
And with a quick yank, Chatty made the yellow cord cry from the bus’ rear.
With all his jibber-jabbering, even the cord dinged with joy to hear
As he told the chocolate bar beside him that next would be her stop.
They’d talked about education, lovelessness and pipe dreams by then.
How, she’d soon flee this plastic-strewn jungle and its destitution,
Her plump lips kissing both it and a flawed Tarzan bye-bye; And how
He planned, too, with a six-figured post, to divorce his ghetto life.
Then at thirty minutes plus 2,
A lineup of cars holding up the bus,
He, looked at her, and like a sputtering tap, gushed,
“If you ever need to talk . . . about anything . . .
Passover, relationships, Anything . . . .”
She wriggled her hips, yanked up her unbelted skinnies
And tottered to the door, where the answer hit him hard.
It was hopeless. She’d never call.