“You the hero in here” I said,
as a newly boarded passenger opened up the windows
on the late afternoon bus into the county.
An early April day felt like early May
on the shoreline toes of the Cascades,
buzzed from cheap beer and rays caught in the grass.
She needed air after a quick run to the station
in knee-high black leather boots at that,
and a knee-high wool-blend skirt.
The bus was full enough to bring strangers close together,
body heat, sweat, and a pheromone chamber
breathing hard, but steady from exertion
adrenaline and something sweeter breathes its way inside,
firm shoulders pressed against my own
as she reads Ken Kesey’s ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’.
I know the book and I know the movie,
yet I’m trapped inside, silent like a lobotomized Randle Murphy,
or maybe Billy Bibbit, biting his tongue,
waiting for the right words,
but Chief knows that talk is cheap.
I see her hands.
They look like mine,
but I know the hero’s hands will never find
the ones that type this script
a life lived in fantasy