And as you steered the conversation,
all the while I pictured
a school bus we once saw
sliding on black ice,
sweeping across the road
like a second hand. I recalled
how we felt the pulse,
the moment's love and blood,
throbbing from the neon mustard
color field on wheels.
I remember that you murmured,
Please god, no, and later
you spoke of Rothko, wondering
if we painted heartbeats.