Everyone in this crummy little town hates me.
I put on a face
I wave goodbye
I get on the bus
and in the window my mind paints faces
of all the good people who didn’t forgive.
In the window
in the passing trees and river
I paint them with the blurring colors.
The blueberry bushes with summer-green leaves
seem to me overalls and a button-up shirt.
Glasses, a wooden porch, the door cracked open,
an old man’s voice through clenched teeth
and a grudge held closer than a cup of hot coffee.
I look down.
The stark white-black-white of the pavement streaks
bring to mind an offer of forgiveness – a conditional offer –
a business offer dressed up in a black vest and a white shirt –
the guy never lightens up, says he’ll never be more than my acquaintance.
And he tries not to call me names
but he looks at me with suspicious eyes
like he knows I’m a thief.
I’m a thief,
but I remember the girl
who fills up my heart
like a page in the journalist’s notebook
with notes in the margins and upside-down.
And when I told her I was sorry she cried
and the ink stained all over.
She was scared, but so much braver than me –
she offered her forgiveness like a smile –
she waved goodbye and watched me leave.
