At the bus stop someone had hung pork rinds
on a broken necklace wire,
little gold moons for the neck of a saint
who drank mouthwash behind the pharmacy.
Rain kept licking the timetable to transparency.
My shoe filled slowly with Finland.
A woman in a fur coat carried a leaking carp
inside a supermarket bag that said THANK YOU.
It tapped her knee all the way across the street
like a small, wet uncle asking for bail.
I wanted to kiss you then,
but my breath tasted like vending-machine coffee and pennies.
When the bus arrived it knelt in gray exhaust,
and the necklace swung once like it had remembered a ballroom.