Strains of the Swan

Waft through the Berkeley farmers' market
over the worried shoppers, under the rainclouds.
A high-strung Asian student in a short red dress
draws from her violin for a moment
the music we played at dinner last night
it lives in my head the rest of the day
I half-whistle half-breathe it on my way to yoga
and the next day, I hear it on the radio
waiting for my mentor, whose friend just died.
As I board the bus late at night in the rain
a boy too young to be so stoned
incomprehensibly navigates past the driver
who is pouring coffee into a styrofoam cup.
If I nod off, who will there be
to see my ship out at sea in this rain?
I split ten bucks on some onions
and give her five for the memory.