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Bus-y
up and off her busy din again
the late bus home
Poemas sobre el tema: bus
Poemas sobre el tema «bus» en Poets.by.
Wet
a full bus
I could be incognito
for the rain
Morning run
the din of the night
bus home
Night bus
the night bus took me with it
and I am glad to be going
I will grow fur and believe
in the god of debt
Ceremony
As he stumbles on the bus
he proclaims to the driver,
“I drank her under the table!”
How does one “drink” an
other; consume this other?
What role, the table, under which
his Passions play?
I do not wish to forsake this one or this other,
though I swear I do not know them.
I only know he stands, arms outstretched,
holding bus stanchions across the aisle
in cruciform stance.
I tell myself it is so he will not fall.
What if it is so he will not rise?
Haiku 12
Music from the church
at this distance, I will hear
only blended souls.
What would Gang of Four
say about this construction
between me and freeze?
Against unhappiness
paprika on potato
contends to the taste.
An intimate act
summoning optimism
that I’ll see the moon.
Not so much the wind
as the shutter cord’s tapping,
the ebb of sirens.
Mill that fine, grinders!
Haiku 7
Might this crane, stilled,
suggest a cat at attention,
triangular head?
Left hand like a starfish
watch it long enough, sensibly,
it may move an arm.
One cedar tree branch
bent like a worm, much older
than this argument
They call the busman
“driver”–that formality
cracks in my own throat.
Thick plaid headgear,
brown beard, thick glasses–a voice
like the end of the world.
She waves, the bus goes,
Haiku 52
March,
forgiven sins at last…
a roast beef sandwich
At my death…
will even the wasted time
comfort me?
He speaks to me
in the dreams I don’t have
until summer
The Air Force man
holds a sapling, two feet
from the root ball
Thick thud,
the cooper’s mallet–
so much sleet!
March…
Haiku 41
He didn’t shoot me
for looking at him funny
so here I am now
I’ll file my report
the whiskey ran off with my night
leaving splintered sun
That pecking pigeon
could it wander through the doors
of the southbound train?
A flagger, shrouded
in bright orange; excavator
waits for the whistle
And I’m lumped in with
this whole busload, young to old
watching the fall storm
Hoodied, with gnarled hands
Haiku 31
Dying alone? Well,
what is it but dying, plain,
plus a codicil?
She told me to leave
and I’m the only witness
to one good deed done.
Those bedbugs again,
spread through our laundry room grime
whom shall they favor?
Summer sensation
dry lower lip pulls back from
sticky incisors.
The old man’s left hand,
top of the driver’s headrest
slight shake as brakes squeak.
She ties on a branch
Haiku 15
The ambulance man
he sees me, my northbound bus,
then runs to the west.
Gasoline can, spilled
then righted, five yards away
sunny-hot pavement.
Yes, Lloyd Building,
Yes, Int’nl Teriyaki,
Stay, feeble sunshine!
Five pigeons, rooftop
one does a dance while the rest
perch, vigilant.
Does anybody
think, of this old bench, and its
conversation husks?
“I can’t stand the rain”–
Haiku 26
Drops on bus window
why do some tarry, others
plunge headlong to ground?
Nearsighted, sensing
rain through library window–
a shiver in air.
Will you stop to count
how many short messages
written on your clothes?
After twenty years
I’m unfriended, for getting
David Bowie wrong.
Purple air mattress
outside Portland; too tired
to switch off the lights.