We were seated together out of Chicago,
she by the window and I on the aisle,
and that’s where we stayed, strangers
on the long bus ride west, two sleepers
lost in the same American dreamscape.
She told me her theory of everything —
Paul was the South, warm, sensual;
John was the North, cold, analytical:
George, the East, heavy, mystical;
Ringo, the West, light, comical.
Her short, plump legs barely reached the floor.
She bumped my knee one night
as she squeezed by to go to the bathroom
and I opened one eye to see her ass
in faded jeans, round and blue as a prairie sky.
She got off in Winnemucca at midnight
into the cold desert air under a billion stars.
I played a nickel slot at the diner,
then slept through the Sierras
and woke to sunrise in Oakland.
In the cold fog of San Francisco,
I ate a bowl of noodles, then wandered
toward the Pacific, so far west
that I was facing the East.