The Girl At The Bus Stop

I thought you were a ghost
when I first saw you hovering there,
ethereal and vaporous.

You were lost,
you wore wisteria in your hair,
diaphanous.

You crossed
the street and we sat there
as I waited for the bus.

In your gypsy dress you tossed
your skirts with flare,
beauteous.

I stood up to see
if my bus was in sight
and when I glanced back
all I saw was a sprig of wistera.

Your absence
haunts me.