by Maura Yzmore
A bubbly, tightly wound woman
travels through foreign lands
and a gruff, snarky man
comes along, for a fee,
only because he needs
money to save his bar.
Along the way, adventure,
mayhem and funny quips,
them growing close, grand gestures,
happy ending, the works.
The leads both drop-dead gorgeous,
yet relatable, human.
Bus station in a village.
The two asleep on a bench.
She wakes up, sees their bus,
gazes at sleeping man,
then gets up, walks away;
her luggage rolls behind.
The roar of bus’s engine
wakes the man on the bench,
who sees the woman gone,
jumps up, drowsy and flustered,
only to helplessly watch
the slowly departing bus.
She returns with two coffees
sloshing in paper cups;
sees the man from behind.
He’s distressed, kicking dirt,
and she knows, as do we,
that he has feelings for her.
I watch this over and over,
because, if it were me,
seeing the man upset for
thinking I’d left on the bus,
I know I’d never assume
that he had feelings for me.
I would assume he was pissed
because I’d left without paying.
Because, after he’d put up
with my annoying ass,
he still would have no money
needed to save his bar.
I wonder how one becomes
like our fair heroine,
someone whose mind just leaps
to people having feelings,
someone who doesn’t exhaust
all other explanations
before even allowing
a possibility.
Maura Yzmore is a writer and academic scientist based in the American Midwest. Her short fiction can be found in Gone Lawn, Occulum, Jellyfish Review, and elsewhere. This is her first poetry publication. Website: https://maurayzmore.com Twitter: @MauraYzmore.