His point of view is golden. .
His hopes usually lost in caustic piles,
But this point of interest remained immaculate
embossed across the aisle.
The setting was Bus thirty-two. .
she'd take her seat or just lay down,
Beautiful & focused -
not the type you'd think you'd meet on a Greyhound
Glasses and pea-coat. .
Thus, her aura complied with his misery,
For every figment of his social life
spent time defining simplicity.
He didn't mind this time, though
plagued by clouds of impatience,
The fantasies were imaginative -
even without illustrations.
They never made contact but once;
and, disguising his blunder,
The boy faked a terrible sneeze
as if his eyes didn't wander.
A Friday evening commute;
his prayer was inciteful & satin,
He'd make an approach -
asking her to spend a night in Manhattan.
He'd drempt the situation;
leaving lands astray like Moses,
After popping the question
he'd reveal a bouquet of roses.
She boarded at her stop;
& she'd combat a collared dude,
Before she could make it to her seat
where she sat in solitude
Roses in hand, he trembled
Shaken, this type of pain was kosher,
He glanced to his left, wondering. .
when he might regain composure
Gathering thoughts, he giggled -
had his passion been bolder. .
"Ahh hell, screw the what-ifs,"
he thought as he tapped on her shoulder
With a swing of her hair;
his pants had leaked his agenda,
A timid, "Hello. ." couldn't hide it -
now, his cheeks were magenta
Awaiting an answer, stumbling back -
a rail had upended his gift
Roses on the floor, he answered:
"The name's Richard, but friends call me Rick."

Now joking with friends -
he felt dirty and sought the nearest cologne,
"Sure, I broke the silence," he thought
"too bad I left my ear plugs at home."

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