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Woman I Wish I Could Have Photographed
An endurance head
of an ancient survivor race,
that lasted but never thrived,
nods when the man beside her speaks.
She hears him and her eyes
wander into the void of the bus floor.
The yes is a signal that she hopes will make him stop.
On one side, she has slow but even eyes
that would never make a mistake out of passion.
On the other side her face is broken,
hairline and brow melted, barely held up.
Her face is labor,
attached to a hard round body,
spine bent forward, endures,
but never rebels.
The question written into it is how
do I handle joy.
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