when the bus ride wasn’t long enough
Your infant hands were matches in the palms
of strangers, the salvation of a 6 p.m. journey home,
a child so full of his own goodness you left traces
of it on the seat covers, handrails, (guardrails) circling
those returning to dinner two days old in the refrigerator.
In between the sounds of an aching bus stumbling
its way back home, drowning out voices of foreign men
and women whispering chaos and sweet nothings in our
ears, I found my shivering breath reborn within your laughter.