A poem by Dave Jarecki

we can't run up
to the old lady at the bus,
grasp her hand,
but can
watch our way
into her, peel
her clothes
to expose
young flesh,
see
how eyes flick
to a child she recalls
dead in his crib.
take
the seat with her,
know
her list, the friend
and meat she picks,
how she hates the cold,
is used to rain
and fine
slow rides.

For more of Dave's fine work please check out his site: http://davejarecki.com/creative/