reflection #3

she was sitting in front of me
in the bus to Manhattan.

her face was reflecting in the window
we shared.

Lincoln Tunnel was the hyperspace.
remote stars were passing by in darkness
behind the glass.

only her face was quiescent.
she was sleeping.

I touched the window it was warm.
it must be her breath that warmed it.

when the bus left the tunnel,
the light erased her image.

isn’t it ironic?

a real torture

she was an Erynie
a groupie,
who followed my steps
without knowing sleep.

she was a pothole
on the torrid asphalt,
a pockmark
on my irritated cheek.

some nights
she came in nightmares
as young woman,
asking for a pain
from lacerations on the skin
she left another day,
while chasing me.

some nights
she was an old lady,
demanding pocket change
for Starbucks coffee,
pot and sour beer.

(she left abruptly.)

one winter morning I woke up
and didn’t see her,
but rocking chair
that stood motionless,
empty.

the chair
she used to fidget
while waiting me.

a punishment was over!

or
only just began.

please answer me, –
what was your real torture,
to chase me
or to wake me up?