i was riding through the city earlier
and i thought of you. thought maybe
if you were there,
we’d get off at the stop for the art museum.
we’d look at the paintings
and the sculptures
no, i wouldn’t be so cliched
as to say i would be too busy looking at you
to look at the art
because i would, of course,
look at the art.
it’s just that you would fit right in.

i thought maybe if you were there,
we’d get off at the stop for a place
we had never heard of
we’d walk until we found an ice cream shop
and you’d get two scoops of chocolate
and i’d pretend to judge you
because all sensible people get sherbet.
thought maybe we’d walk the sidewalk
and i’d point out all the dogs
and take pictures of you even though
you’d shield your face
thought maybe i’d pretend
i didn’t just try to hold your hand
thought maybe you’d pretend
you didn’t want me to.

i thought maybe if you were there,
we’d stay out until midnight
and admire the lights still on in the buildings
as if they were stars.
i thought maybe if you were there,
the city would bring out the quiet in us
the gentle liveliness
thought maybe you’d think
the sky was devoid of stars not because
of light pollution but because
they fell into my eyes
or something.
that’s what i’d think.

that’s what i thought maybe.
but you weren’t there.
so, lost in thought, i rode around
until it started to rain
and then wondered why i got wet
on the lonely walk home.

the brisk north winds have me
standing on a bench in the bus shelter
with my hands held up to the space heater
hot air rises and i imagine
all the angels in heaven burning
and their ashes are white like snow
i imagine i’m ankle deep in angel dust
and my cold urticaria doesn’t hurt
and i imagine an endless slumber
induced by the cries of the dying cherubim
and my last breath is a discernible
cry for help

From the Back of the Bus©

The journey to school via that yellow tin can
They call it a bus at least where I come from, man

Long and narrow it transports it’s precious cargo
And delivers daily where we must show to grow

My favorite destination of that vehicle not of choice
Was the back of the bus so I could hide inside and rejoice

Many lessons were learned on the way to school
Observing life from that back of that melting *** pool

One learned about friendship between two friends
The shy kid whose ride was a means to an end

The bully that would run amok
Those were the ones that would have me duck

There were smiles and frowns alike
Most days I would rather ride my bike

Some days were up but most days were down
In the midst of the crowd and the class clown

Intersperse that beautiful girl
And the kids that made you want to hurl

Some were kind and some were tough
Seeing some of both was enough

Not realizing at that young age
This was preparing us for a different life stage

The ride was a daily grind
While I was looking for something else to find

From the back of the bus

Andreas Simic©

From the Back of the Bus©

The journey to school via that yellow tin can
They call it a bus at least where I come from, man

Long and narrow it transports it’s precious cargo
And delivers daily where we must show to grow

My favorite destination of that vehicle not of choice
Was the back of the bus so I could hide inside and rejoice

Many lessons were learned on the way to school
Observing life from that back of that melting *** pool

One learned about friendship between two friends
The shy kid whose ride was a means to an end

The bully that would run amok
Those were the ones that would have me duck

There were smiles and frowns alike
Most days I would rather ride my bike

Some days were up but most days were down
In the midst of the crowd and the class clown

Intersperse that beautiful girl
And the kids that made you want to hurl

Some were kind and some were tough
Seeing some of both was enough

Not realizing at that young age
This was preparing us for a different life stage

The ride was a daily grind
While I was looking for something else to find

From the back of the bus

Andreas Simic©

A frizz of hair and froth of cloudy breath
Walk down the dimly lit, puddled mirror
Of wet sidewalks
Shushed by the rush of the stampede
of bullets that shoot along beside
Pushed by an exodus of ex bus surplus minds
Flowing with the tide

Feathers flit and twitter overhead
With sticks and bits to make their bed
A sparse sea for company
Drops down to flow alongside me
And wet the grass
Which grows between the sidewalk slits
And rocky pothole pits
Beside the dark leaf stains and plodding feet
That beat a slow, releived retreat
From crowded bus seat