Every day, past the same cubist street lamps, dangling over Gran Vía’s wide avenue
Every day, through windy Cartuja, littered with fliers, “For Rent,” “Missing,” “Translator for Hire”
Every day, up and down hills lined with passive students becoming his every stop
And if I should be so lucky,
I will take a thirteen minute bus ride with the next John Keates.
I count the beats of his habitual movements – his timing in a perfect iambic pentameter,
I observe him discreetly so he’ll never know my analysis.
My poet bus driver drives me mad.
He’s hard at work until the caesura of the Almighty Red Light, when I catch him sneaking scribbles in his notebook,
And humbly scribes to a distant muse in Spanish fragments.
Though to the untrained eye, he is simply tallying his route or total transit passes sold today
But I know the truth,
I see how his mind wanders in traffic and recites his own additions to Lorca’s greatest works.
And one day, I’ll slip him a note as I pay for my fare
Telling him how I see his talent,
How I’ve practically studied his work
But he will probably assume it’s an old receipt or gum wrapper,
And toss my confession to the floor.