#92

#92

It's bloody 6am;
most are groggy and asleep--
the sun rises over the evergreens,
leaves dance on the wind.
The driver's cheerful disposition;
the clouds float by on blue--
"Good morning," that's how it starts;
he's awake for a bloody 6:45am--
his skin, like coffee, wanting more
and his hair, salt and pepper,
he takes my breath away;
draped in Flyers jerseys,
the black, orange and white
bring out the amber of his eyes.
We laugh talking about beer and liquor,
Turks Head makes him come alive
as well as Wisconsin and the Packers.

It's bloody 6:14am;
the times they are a changing,
more are awake, but disgruntled--
the clouds gather over evergreen,
the sun has already awoken.
Yet, he's gone,
another route;
the tears well in my eyes--
no more lust, conversations
about Wisconsin, sports and music.
And the beloved driver has gone too.
I couldn't even say goodbye;
as the driver looked,
I escaped for two days--
infirmed in bed, with flu,
but at least to my other beloved--
I never want to say goodbye.