Another morning. I’m on the bus, and through the window I see a couple gesticulating on the sidewalk. His back is turned to me and I can’t see his face, but she is beautiful and exotic, a long mane of wavy black hair. And although I can’t hear her, I can see the anger and pain in her words.
Same old story
Her hair is wild, her brow is furled,
she wields her words like knives.
He stands immobile and remote,
the strategy of guys
who could care less.
She’s just another bitch, he thinks,
I was only having fun.
And I will win this argument
because I’ve got the gun.