There was snow
right up to
the doorstep

ankle deep
even the
Downs had snow

still be school
Mother said
the school bus

will get through
-what a bore
I had thought-

and it did
right outside
the blue bus

so we got
on the bus
and it drove

through the snow
Jane was there
looking cold

by a side
window seat
I sat there

next to her
how are you?
feeling cold

she told me
yes me too
I replied

few flowers
to look at
everything

is covered
in this snow
she told me

but it was
good being
next to her

that perfume
of apples
her dark hair

and dark eyes
and her hand
holding mine

out of sight
gently so
on that bus

in the snow.

I stand waiting for a bus.
Two women are next to me,
They're dreaming of good luck.
One asks the other
"Do you think it'll ever be?
Do you think I'll ever be happy?
Now that she's left me?"
A sister, a mother, a lover?
Who's to know.
But the pain in her voice is raw-
She can't have left long ago.
The wind causes my hair to spiral
And I flatten it in haste.
But the women don't seem to care-
No they don't want to waste
Any energy on themselves.
The other talks of her child:
A girl of almost three.
She speaks with such love,
Such joy but such woe:
She is worried her father will take her
Away from her home.
The bus pulls up and I mount it-
To me it's just a bus,
But to them its wonderful wheels,
Will take them to good luck.

you smell like a memory
a 50 person charter bus only carrying 28
i don't want to let you hear my heartbeat
but i can feel your breath on the inside of my elbow

we have nothing in common
except the day of the week
today we are friday

you are thinking about a two hour time difference
june july and august

'i'm living in the moment,' you say
i nearly kick my legs through the glass of the window
tiny imprints, evidence of a nap on your shoulder

'i'm living in the moment,' you say
and i dip my french fries in your subtle charm
tasting sweet and salty all at once

'i'm living in the moment,' you say
i plant flowers in your ears
but you wait for them to grow

'i'm living in the moment,' you say
'but i'm not that kind of guy'

sit on the bus
shiver in pain
don't know where to go
needed out of the rain

shaky knees
squealing brakes
doors open wide
welcome the embrace

Faces lost in blank expression

Wait in stasis for their stop,

Shuttled from one potential

To the next like letters

In a mailman’s bag.

The sounds and smells of strangers,

The uncomfortable touches,

The squeezing in spaces,

The jerking rhythm of the ride,

The pram queens who sag

Against the railing

While their kids twist and turn

And scream at the lack of fun

In the faces of blank expression,

While couples tongues quietly wag.

Youthful monsters sit at the back

Playing tunes for the irritation

Of the old school music hacks,

While grandma dozes against the glass,

Shopping drawn up like a wall

To protect her from her past.

Father and daughter

Playing a game,

Sitting next to two lovers

Who are doing the same.  

The tickling natter of friends,

The glare of phones,

The lying dog’s stare.

Life on the buses,

A slice of people

For the cost of a fare.

Together, each day, in San Francisco on Christmas at the wharf, following our envisioned dream,
Youthful and childlike, the dock of boats and the ocean shore, standing in front of the Christmas tree,

That day, the day I first saw you, where you got sick and they let you off, sitting only a row behind, just over to the side,
At the meeting place, on the field trip watching you at the dusty Mission from a short distance, I felt something changing inside,

Together, at the piano in the square, playing our song "The Busride," our busride we share, that fateful day,
Every night, our whimsical moments together, in the ivory golden light of the moon, both asleep and at play,

The sidewalk, she runs toward me with her backpack, giggling she tries to smack me with it, then I remember,
You running towards me, clutching your lunch pail trying to land a friendly blow, three innocent lovers, September,

She's always been like a sister to me, and you, playful and boyish, like a total opposite, such unique treasures,
Breaths taken like the sea, onward like this music of hours, magical notes washing up on the shore in even measures,

Together, wishing and dreaming a dream so true, the petals I pick, the field of endless flowers,
I'm still on that bus, tomorrow, now and for all time, for the rest of my life, every moment, this eternal bus ride of ours,

Rain falling on and on to impart,
bringing the flowers a cordial of life,
With her laughter echoing afar.

That day-our busride, together...

there is a woman
who drives
the bus I take to school in the morning
I always wonder, more often than not
why she works on a bus
it must be tedious and boring
running the same route over and over again
dealing with girls like me
who
more often than not
forgot their money
she is pretty, young
wears expensive sunglasses
but she drives the high school bus
full of loud, rude kids
instead of something
she would find more
appealing.
but maybe she likes the repetition, the change
the power of driving us each day
maybe she relishes our little lives
in her hands
which grip the steering wheel
as she navigates the streets
maybe she enjoys the challenge
of wide turns and
negotiating her way through the streets like
an overweight pedestrian
on a busy sidewalk