She jogs the empty corner of the shopping center lot,
where barberries catch the dead leaves.
The wind fills her Buzz Lightyear coat,
thrashing and dingy at the elbow.
The bus hulks against the wind.
She stops and eyebrows my truck
when I wave her across. She grins like the boy
in the shopping cart I saw an hour ago,
in his own Buzz shirt, grin full of stars
at the galaxy he was discovering,
the world slow as understanding. The woman in the lot
already knows what it means to miss
the bus, to be late, to dare to run in front of a car
when you cannot see the driver, your hair a tangle
in a wind that, outside of any car, only you can feel.
The three-finger wave I give is barely visible
above the steering wheel, a hand
of threat and grace, which she won’t know
without that first step. She jogs the crosswalk, the bus
heaves and hisses, its windows reflecting her arms
and shoulders, her face watching the ground,
where the wind shoves leaves in every direction.
