PANHANDLE by RON PAUL SALUTSKY

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I

You count spiders in the bus stop
eaves, note the webbed wanting,

the undone strands a story of air
moving around you where you wait

facing the misplanted crape myrtles
along Blairstone Road,

thermos of iced green tea beside you
and novel in hand. You want

to board the wrong bus and disrupt
the already-known of your coming

and going, fate's braiding flesh
and days, my arms burn

for your wholeness, my head churns
with spiders who should have been

left alone, the bite, the frisson, the fear--
which came first?--memory's tableau

written on tissue, we thought to share our pain
rather than show our scars,

which wasn't quite right. A step
in the evening's dim light, some talk

of suffering, the seeing where we step,
no assurance we wouldn't crush the tiny bodies

crawling your heartwood pine floor
at night. You tried to paint

your pain away, cerulean blue, burnt sienna,
gessoed and gouached, the concrete pool


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