In the Bus

A simple question and you just
looked out the window
as if you hadn’t heard a word
and I wasn’t there.
You left my heart
pumping into space, the hanged man
twisting in all the cold wind
of your silence…
Should I ignore you —
read a book, watch the road —
or just ignore your bad manners
and keep talking
as if nothing happened —
talking to the back of your head…
Later you said you didn’t know
how to answer — Fair enough,
but couldn’t you have looked at me
as I’d so many times
tried to read some truth
in the enigma
of your cold blue eyes.
In the bus
I didn’t know the answer
to the question of the silence
and the ice,
your cruel and golden head.
For a moment,
I’m sorry, Lena, but
I wished you were dead.