I met a lion tamer on the bus today.
If you’d have seen him you wouldn’t have thought
he made a living out of playing with monsters.
His lips pointed down at the ends,
like he had seen some hard times.
I wanted to sit next to him and ask, why lions?
but his backpack occupied the bruise-colored seat.
Instead, I watched the lion tamer out of the corner of my eye.
I wished his hands weren’t hidden, I wished I could
admire the scars. I think they’re beautiful, I’d tell him when he
turned red with shame. Then, maybe, if I was brave enough,
I would have added I think you’re beautiful, too.
For a moment I considered
going to him,
taking that backpack-obscured seat anyways.
But instead I hooked my finger around the cable and
waited for the bus to stop.