Dear City Buses,
I hate you. You were half an hour late. It is very cold outside. Maybe my toes might have fallen off.
lovericka
:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:Dear Men on the Bus,
Stop taking up all the damn room. Sit like a girl if you have to. I want to be able to ride home without feeling half your body pressing up against me. This side of the seat is mine. I want it.
lovericka
:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:Dear Snow,
You look like confetti sort of hanging out in the sky. Behind the clouds I can see the bright sky.
lovericka
:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:Dear Lovely Boy Who Used to Ride the #2 in the Morning,
I liked you, I liked to look at you. I thought you were like a superhero in secret-identity mode. Your suit & tie, your shined shoes, couldn't hide your beat-up messenger bag & your baby-bird-ish stick-up hair.
You don't ride the bus anymore. Did you move? I miss you.
You are the boy with blond baby-bird hair, & glasses.
lovericka
:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:Dear Frank O'Hara,
It is easier to make poems when I pretend you are my uncle, also when I pretend you are not dead, you have just gone on a very long vacation to the moon.
lovericka
