Waiting at the lights
I see
a young woman at the bus stop
crying

Her hair
whipping in the promise of spring
a chill wind scented with cut grass
and bloom

She stands
distraught
surrounded by traffic
turning this way and that
seeking privacy
on an exposed corner

Her face disolves
the skin and bone
receding
sloughing off
to expose the rawness of pain
how the nerve endings
shudder and shy from the sun
how the searing
can only really jolt electric
when the cool spring morning touches them

I drive on
when the light changes
watching her fade
in the rear view mirror