White T-shirt
by Lewis Ellingham
I caught sight of it at a bus stop:
a white T-shirt, though
it was partly covered by
the turning form of a lanky youth massed
with other human forms intent upon
boarding the bus on which
I was riding, tucked in a corner seat on
the last row of seats on the bus, the right
side, sheltered,
watching the surge as it entered the double
rear doors that
soon welcomed as a bottleneck the
half dozen
new passengers -- tall, he walked back along the aisle until he stood
maybe a dozen feet from me,
holding a rail
with one hand (the right), the other arm
dangling, his hips relaxed,
every color -- hair, eyebrows, lashes, half-day beard
shadow,
heavy cotton pants, a
jacket dangling from the dangling left arm -- black
except for his
white T-shirt, unornamented, the folds from
his twist
as he stood, deep drapery folds, the cotton
heavier than ordinary
for such a garment, the trim at waist and short
sleeves the same material rolled,
eye-catching for its clean bright whiteness,
hinting at his beauty, and
beautiful in its self: a white
T-shirt, an
object, he
would move slightly, the
creases deepen
as the twist deepened
slightly --
at Castro, Market and
17th streets
he got off, many did, many boarded, his eyes,
a light brown, met mine through
the bus window for a moment, the T-shirt
at his neck white,
an object still
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