A picture of Evita wreathed in flowers
Adorns the bus's runny windshield.
The driver in his mirror glowers
At the Pampa's wind-blown field.
A line of passengers waits to board,
School kids, tired workers poor.
And there she is, praise the Lord,
To salve my soul, evermore.
Sure, on a teacher's miserable salary
She's poor like the rest, but not as poor
in the soul, or mind if you prefer contrarily,
But she'll now be poor nevermore.
The seat she takes is next to mine.
she opens a copybook to correct the errors
In ink-blotted papers one at a time,
Trying to make sense of the leaning letters.
I little doubt we've known each other
In a past paradise-like life:
As a brother, lover or even mother,
Either of these would define my delight.
I ask – although I already knew --
If she was a teacher in a country school.
The question to her was hardly new:
She nods politely, though kinda cool.
“In the next town”, as she erasing rubs,
Leaving little time to make my pitch:
Come live with me and be my love
I quote as we roll around a ditch.
She stands and smiles a smile so fair
“My English is not so good,” she says.
Once outside in the dusty square
She embraces some guy causing distress,
And pointing at my balding dome,
The old lecher still seated here,
Who propositioned her with a poem.
They laugh out loud and rude, I fear.
Let me give you a piece of advice
If it's not already too late to choose.
As a lesson I can't be more concise:
Give heed to the Reincarnation Blues.