On The Bus

She swayed with unexpected grace
            Along the pitching bus
Indifferent to the brutal race
            Aroused in each of us.

Her cotton dress was of that bare
            Beyond unbaring kind –
She pressed against the lucky air
            And trailed her scent behind.

She didn’t speak, but we could hear
            A lyric siren sing,
And our most lurid dreams were clear
            In wild imagining.

You couldn’t hear a sneeze or cough
            Among that motley lot
Til moments after she got off –
            As we, of course, did not.