Poet Commentaries

Inside a Bus

Inside a Bus

“tweet tweet”
my morning birds prefer
another biographer

It did not start on the bus.
First came years
of evening door knocks,
the creak of a mail slot
and his eerie voice
chanting her name;
“Aaannnie. AANNie.

He loved her
and it was strange as hell
as she was a devil dog.
One must know the approach
and fear wasn’t it.
Dave would put me between
and shake in excitement
as he grunted the orders,
as he imitated her bark;
and marvelled at her silence?
Twice only he was listened to.
Twice only he gave her a treat.

Dave was never articulate.
Words perform poorly
when they are interjections
to laughs and giggles
grunts and groans
but we communicated
and eventually he ran to see me
demanding his hug.
Occasionally butt naked.

Saturdays for two hours
I rode the bus with him.
He would come in my van
to get supplies.
A poetry reading for me.

The sound of a diesel
growling up a hill,
wheels slapping at a pothole,
Brakes perfectly pitched.

I make no attempt to
squeeaak and vrooom vroom
using words.
Words perform poorly
and are no canvass
for his art.

Go ahead, write out the sound
of a bus stop chord.
There is a sound in drawn slack,
in the click just before the ding
and in the sigh of its release.
Or the firm whispers of hydraulics;
the maestro to whining hinges
each squealing an octave
above the other;
their’s not a complaint
but simply their voice.

I know the sound
of each relay’s tongue click
and the subtle sizzle
of electricity in turn indicators.
There is still
a sleepy feeling
at the lullaby of rubber
wiping tears out of eyes,
the expectation in the soul
as they pause and creak,
like a yawn building,
and then release
with aaaawwwww
and a slap.

“honk honk”
is neither goose
nor bus.

%d bloggers like this: