Bus Schedule

We can't help it, we tack the bus schedule
just above the great man's letter-
his three typed lines from England
to say he is ill and cannot write more. The photo
of a daughter's seven-year old self floats
unprotected, a decade later, on the desk's
rough surf of bills and drafts. The moon catchess
just inside the disorganized garage
like a white shadow on the fender. You
(because in the end I care about little else
than the you), you traffic with the sacred
and profane of me. We try
to separate them, kissing
only the beautiful and cursing only the
unwanted but they become
tangled as a very long thread will do, knotting itself when sewing a patch.