The bench is three paces
From the bike rack
Twelve feet
To the light pole
A million miles from
Where I want to be
And eleven minutes
Closer to you.

He's circling around
The L-shaped
Concrete garden
And she's singing where
The sidewalk
Meets the asphalt
While I'm somewhere
In between them.

If this campus were
A battleground
Every one of us
Would be losing
And the shuttle bus
Would only serve to
Carry away our
Stone cold bodies.

We're all waiting
At some earthy spring
Bus stop
For the same ride
A bittersweet
Kiss of death.

Now I see a car
Coming up the hill
And I get to my feet
After all
I shouldn't keep the
Hearse waiting.