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Mark Brazaitis | When the Bus ComesI used to wait for the bus to bring you,
the sky turning orange, turning
red, silver-gray, black.
Sometimes I would watch four or five busses come,
leave passengers from Purulhá or El Rancho,
their arms full sometimes, sometimes empty.
And when you didn't come,
I had the pleasure of my expectation
as the night grew darker,
the stars more distinct.
And then you came.
It was sweet, of course,
it was always sweet.
But with you in my arms
flush from travel, full
of stories about the banana farmer or weaver
you'd met on your ride,
I knew our weekend was leaving.
One evening three of my neighbors
came with me to wait.
Mario and María and baby Annabella came.
And so I shared the ritual of the false busses,
the riders who weren't you
dropped on the side of the road.
And the night grew colder.
And darker.
Brighter, the stars.
And then you came.
Now ours was a public reunion,
our embrace, our kiss, witnessed.
As weddings are witnessed.
Wills, too.
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