To a Girl at a Chicago Bus Stop

A poem I wrote when I was much younger, about a stranger.

You sat upon a city bus stop
sitting, watching, intently gazing
in the haze, in the future
for better times
or better rhymes.
Gently batting lashes
delicate, glass girl.
in the city,
with mahogany,
with grace,
wispy and smoky,
soft lips,
I saw you,
I looked in your eyes
and went away,
On my own.
In the stone city,
where black cotton bustles,
where men and women clutch each other,
But I don't think I'll see you again.
You've been more imagination than flesh ever since
You first sat upon a city bus stop,
existing solely in lonely, cerebral halls.