Bernice sits in the seat of the bus
and moves to its motion.
She smiles at the thought
of Ariadne dressing that morning;

the slow removal of the nightgown,
the hands holding and lifting
over her head; the brief nakedness;
the pulling over her head

of the I LOVE *** tee shirt;
the slipping on of blue jeans.
Once dressed she leaned over
and kissed Bernice’s head.

Come on you lazy *****,
get yourself out of that
love nest, she had said.
Someone sits next to her

on the bus; disturbing her
thoughts; breaking up images.
She looks at the person
beside her: a man of forty

something. She looks away.
Ariadne is constantly in her
thoughts. She knows her well.
She can sense her presence

even without seeing her.
She knows each part of her body
as she dies her own; has lain
in the arms and felt the small

bosoms press against her.
Her one fear was the loss of her;
the taking away of her being;
the coming of age and death;

the coming of illness and departure.
Live for the day, Ariadne said,
tomorrow’s fiction. Bernice closes
her eyes; brings to mind Ariadne’s face;

the look of her; the eyes;
the way the lips moves;
the sway of her hips when
she moves from here to there;

the feel of her finger along
her skin; that closeness, that
love, what others call sin.