A love poem

I will not give away that this is a love poem.
Run it through a search engine but you will not find
a lover's vocabulary in it. You'll be puzzled,
disappointed and confused: lovelorn.

The lines are deliberate to lead you on, to raise
the hope that it is here somewhere. But it is
like courtship where the thrill is in the chase.
The rule remains- haste makes waste.

Stare at it long. You might chance to catch a glance,
quick, elusive, intermittent. Be smitten with written
words promising bonding with page. Maybe if
the wonder remains, give me a second look.

Bu(llet)s

It was the sort of day I could have ignored, overslept, snored.
Unable to recall, in fact, details of a fall. My phone did not ring

to wake me up to challenges of a to-do list. Were the clouds
to assault the sky? Or unable to stay or go?

I rush to a bus while its doors are air-powered open. Dozens of us
push to get a ride. Can't hammer your way through windows.

Stuck in traffic jams? Man, this is a whole-day stay
in an air-conditioned bus! That makes angry or hungry or both.

Honk the horn. Get those electronic eyes catch details of inconsequential
conversations but the most important question - are we there yet?

When I got home, the lines were blurred by hungry stomachs. And so it was.
The rain was a precedent. It poured outside like a hail of bullets.