across the bus

There’s a girl across the bus and all I can see is yellow sleeves, white hands and a pound of silver rings
Are they the rings you put on every day, I don’t ask, or do you choose the mood from a dish of a dozen more? Your friends could read them like flags at sea, I don’t continue, oh, today it’s the ship and the rook, she is combative and hungry, that’s fine, no skulls.
Do you buy yourself them, I don’t ask. Are any of them from people? I know some of them could be from my teens, which they now call vintage.
This is better than those mornings when all I can see is the sun in someone’s lashes.
Those days I don’t even think the things I don’t ask. All silence above the piano in my good earphones.
She turns her hands over, the phone in them, checking for messages. The silver plate lace glints. The acanthus leaf slides sunlight across the bus, onto my black sleeve.
How do people say things, I don’t ask.