Bus Report #697

I met S. at Aardvark Books one evening in June before I headed back east for graduation.
He found me in the fiction and poetry aisle, and I'd already picked a book.
"I have to read more poetry," I said, holding out my offering.
After supper, on the bus, I took the book out of my bag and started reading - Martin Espada's The Republic of Poetry. I was unprepared for it, even though I've loved Martin's poetry for years, ever since R. assigned us to read City of Coughing and Dead Radiators in high school.
I sat in a window seat on the 38, reading poems about Chile - picturing Plaza de Armas in the morning, remembering the smell of our temporary neighborhood, hearing echoes of Victor Jara songs in my head - and I was glad I had my sunglasses on so no one could see I was teary.