Romance

I love the bus driver.
He moves me like an unsought fortuneteller,
Safe hands eclipsing a black moon, two and ten.
His doors fold, so I step in and sit, feeling menial.
Then I look into his rear view mirror, and I know love.
He is my reflection, my active photograph.

I love the electrician.
I climb into his cherry picker and talk to the sky,
To squirrels and gymnastics, birds and aerial maneuvers.
He bounds the power line like it's a ledge and swears,
-On my mama's grave! God bless her soul!
That we'll never fry, we'll never touch the ground.

I love the bug guy.
How he checks my sheets for cockroaches before bed.  

How he fogs the house like a godless apparition; 

gushing in my chest.  I love his bag of shaking
Poisons, how they leave insect stomachs flattened
On the kitchen counter, their legs dangling dead.

I love the old man.
He embraces me every first time the alzheimers-
fever drips, just like lust, like the melting fire of
his advent candle, or like the pea soup
slipping from his toes…