"buses" poems
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
The night sounds of fallen angels
Building stairways back to home
And the radio plays softly
Like a crooner left alone
As the night falls into the velvet shades
And beats down the bedroom door
Of all the visions that come to me
It's of one I'm hoping for
The postman closes up the station
And the buses get cleaned with rain
The asylum rests and barely breathes
As the countryside goes insane
Prophets speak of peace
On the dim hue of TV screens
Of all the moments that seem real
I still wait to watch my dreams
Imposed upon the westward wall
Are the silhouettes of weeping oaks
Swaying in the wind that talks
But they only tell me jokes
Swept beneath the silver stars
Sleeping on blanket clouds
Of all the space above me
I feel as if I can't get out
Headlights and passing trains
Sound like time passing by
Gone are the hearts inside
Like the years beyond my eyes
Sounds from the suburb city
Blow like sirens in my mind
Of all the thoughts within me
Only one freezes time
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
Eyes glued to tiny screens,
the thought of eye contact is faint,
Words are limited.
Silence is all you hear along with the shocks of the buses' wheels
I look around,
Eyes glued to tiny screens,
plugged in,
cookie cake in hand.
What are they thinking?!
A smile wouldn't hurt!
What is beauty?
The train whistles.
Eyes glued to tiny screens,
doors are open,
people get on and off the bus.
What journey are they on?
What part of the day am I getting to share with them?
A smile wouldn't hurt.
It's funny how I teach my students that eye contact is very important.
Am I setting them up for failure?
I look around.
It's like I am invisible.
Eyes, glued, to tiny screens.
I could probably sit here naked and no one would notice me.
A smile wouldn't hurt.
The breeze feels grand,
but who am I to judge?
Eyes glued to the screen.
I am just as bad as one of them.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
Once I undertook a journey,
upon the very face of our entire world.
To view for myself the many pictures,
and written descriptions in all the geography
books and History Classes, National
Geographic magazines and movies seen.
A Quest to see with my own eyes what
I had only experienced second hand.
In my mid twenties, like a dream,
one foot in front of the other,
I went about exploring.
I sniffed and tasted the scents of foreign lands,
Incense, Sage and Frankincense, fish curry,
fried snake and even monkey brains.
Walked in lush Jungle Bush and Desert sands,
Along the shores of Islands and the coasts
of many lands.
Heard the voices of 30 divergent Dialects
and cultures, smiling and laughing with
the families and children of all of them.
Set beside the fires of primitive tribal men,
heard their chants to their gods above, the
moon, stars and the sun, the ocean, the land.
Clapped my hands and moved my feet in
their ancient mystic dances.
Drank their tea, Kava or whatever they shared
grateful for their offered unselfish brotherhood.
Stood on the flanks of the tallest Mountains
in the world, on my toe tips, to try to see the
face of the God of my youthful teachings,
disappointed when I did not see him, or Her.
Found instead an inner tranquility, imparted
to me by Red robbed Monks from within their
chants of Peace and wise earthly enlightenments.
Strolled the cobbled streets of two thousand year
old Cities. Walked among the ruined remnants of
nearly forgotten once great Civilizations.
Explored Modern European Citadels' of wealth and learning.
Over time rode on planes, ships, buses, backs of open trucks,
Horse pulled carts and human drawn rickshaws, taxis, subways,
rented motorcycles and cars. Walked perhaps 1000 miles.
In all a journey of the mind and heart lasting three years.
And why you might ask, "What qualifies you as a pilgrim
of any kind, to travel so far, and wide?"
"What was I looking for, what did I hope to find?"
All indeed, fare questions.
When a boy, I read a simple five word line,
“Seek and thee shall find". Curiosity and
Horizon Lust compelled me.
The next obvious question you might
ask is, after all that; “What did you find?”
That answer is very simple,
I found myself.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
I once found a field,
A beautiful field.
A field that humans have not disturbed.
I lived by the trees near this beautiful field.
But I lived in complete ignorance,
as two men, each with a *****
came to the middle of the grass,
and struck down a wooden plank.
Before long, my forest disappeared.
Instead of grass growing,
The only thing that surfaced,
was the pale gray stone that was laid there.
I watched as they dug deep into the ground,
where tall boxes of stone and glass rose.
They stood proud against one another,
one building higher than the last.
But they blocked my view,
of a once beautiful sky.
Before long, the field turned into a city,
Cars and buses drove though the winding streets.
People soon started to appear,
and the field I once knew was long forgotten.
A fountain has now been placed,
where the pioneers have struck their plank,
With no tree in sight,
I throw the last seed into the water.
Where it settles to the bottom with coins and marbles,
never to sprout.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC
Saw her first at cousin's weddinG,
She looked astonishing I knew where it was headinG
Escorting the bride she came in smilinG
My eyes got glued on her and my heart started poundinG.
Afraid of her brother but she agreed to meeT,
I got there first, where the buses fleeT,
Time and place was on her to fiX,
Excited, I reached before the clock tickS,
There I saw her waving at platform thirty siX.
Time freezed for a while,
Walking towards her a million thoughts ran through my mind,
Was that really her or someone else!?
But that same magical smile and my heart again melts.
Simple, yet pleasant I liked her stylE,
But the best thing was definitely her smilE,
I got lost , stammered in speech for a whilE,
She was confident and I got nervous blood profilE.
The place was new ,
None of us had any clue,
I was sweaty , the day seems hottest,
Perhaps the oddest in the whole August.
Black and white top and she blingS,
Leather sandals and those shiny earingS,
The watch was pink , hairs were perfect readY,
But **** her luggage was real heavY!
Got in a cab, and some comfy place to talK,
She was in a hurry, but i had all the clocK,
She was bold at the same time cooL,
And I was smiling for no reason like a fooL.
More time I wanted to spend,
But getting her home safe and sound was important in the end.
Got her a bus had to bid a good bye,
And my hopes of meeting her soon are sky high! :)
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
It’s the beginning of the monsoons and of the week,
A clouded chilly one with the clouds blanketing the sun.
I’m struggling to get out of bed and into my daily routine,
Running late as always, there’s never time for fun.
The first rains of the season were not welcomed with a smile,
Cars, Buses and mopeds splashing and spraying water all around.
People cursing the rains and others on the roads,
Racing to the office is not as easy as it may sound.
It’s a dark dull day with no sunshine to light my path,
And the rain to rob me of the dryness I had left.
As a child I remember this being different in every way,
The rain bringing me cheer and happiness, never indulging in theft.
Stopping at a red light, all wet and soggy,
I see this small figure making way between the vehicles standing.
On every window and door she knocked with enthusiasm,
This little girl hopping around in every puddle landing.
Trying to sell the water lilies she had in her hand,
Not letting the frowns or the drops of rain her spirit lower.
She shines off all the hate and the disgust,
Through the muck and water walking to sell this pretty flower.
All of the dullness and gloom she got rid.
A smile on my face and in my heart she brought,
This little girl with those bright water lilies,
Like the flower she sold, all eyes and hearts she caught.
Bringing smiles and spreading fragrances in times so dull,
The water lily blooms in the muck and conditions degrading.
So did this little girl on this dark rainy day,
Returning cheer and happiness drained in the rain by blooming.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 6:16 AM UTC
A cloud of smoke and fog so toxic
They had to give it a name.
Out here, it coils around signs
And slinks up the height of buses:
Keen and watchful, like a python,
Squeezing the life from
My lungs. Heavy with ash
And tar from the cigarettes.
The fumes snake upwards,
Swirling in fog, smog,
Ashen clouds. There's a sight
For sore minds.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
Black cabs and ab-dabs.
Dashing through London streets,
High heels and crippled feet.
Back street bars,
wealthy sheiks,
ever running,
Hide and seek.
Black panther's in lippy,
Colourful hippies.
Turbans and tunics,
Kiddies in cotton, with mud on their bottoms.
Big Whigs and stiff prigs.
Market stalls and rubber *****
Undergrounds and all around.
City beats, it's hopping on.
On and off off of buses and train.
London love life, kicking pain.
Picks up his drink and thinks like a fish.
A couple more beers, three seconds of fun.
Slipped into his glass.
Glass one, two three,
Freedom four.
Needs more.
(c) LIVVI
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
Over on the crescent wing
The bitter gales bring waves of rain:
Listen. Frozen windows sing.
Enraptured by the searing pain
Like pestilence in hurricane.
Buildings rise up to the halls
Impenetrable planet-bane
As summer lost, and spring withal.
Then the writhing storm-clouds bring
A storm of ice and wind again:
The sun rears up, but sets during.
And past the steel-laden plane
Silver orbs first wax, then wane
Then plaster to the mighty wall
Midnight buses, lane-by-lane,
Of nature not, but city fool.
Ascended like a spiteful King
The whispers rise, then sink in shame
No sound is here, no, not a thing.
Soaking in like liquor-stains
The buildings survey their domain
Not city-life, nor life at all;
They wander in the pouring rain
Where love is lost beneath the sprawl.
Tears and laughter, much the same
All are whispers, doomed to fall.
Dystopia without a name:
Not so distant after all.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
*There are always new places
For our feet, always
Another,
Wearing out the shoes,
The veins, and soles.
I learned to love the world
From your waist down.
There is no end for travel.
We travel and travel more.
The buses fill, the jeepneys,
And the planes. The trains fill,
Terribly fill. Boracay fills.
And what a tedious postcard
This is,
When the whole point
Of the matter is this: that
We are bound, headed, destined
To someplace else,
Boundless, vast
And everlasting--
A non-lifetime--
Which pretty much answers
Why love does not return.
I think that love could,
But must not return.
And I will carry you on,
You,
On my back,
Just to prove it.*
© 2014 J.S.P.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
at high noon
at a small college near the beach
sober
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table
I flatten it with my finger
blood money blood money
my god they must think I love this like the others
but it's for bread and beer and rent
blood money
I'm tense lousy feel bad
poor people I'm failing I'm failing
a woman gets up
walks out
slams the door
a ***** poem
somebody told me not to read ***** poems
here
it's too late.
my eyes can't see some lines
I read it
out-
desperate trembling
lousy
they can't hear my voice
and I say,
I quit, that's it, I'm
finished.
and later in my room
there's scotch and beer:
the blood of a coward.
this then
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls
reading poems I have long since beome tired
of.
and I used to think
that men who drove buses
or cleaned out latrines
or murdered men in alleys were
fools.
5.4k
NAKED BUS
She catches the London bus
in her fist.
Gnaws it...then throws it
through the window.
Lucky the window wasn't
closed.
She chews it when
teething.
Chews its redness
- off.
She is amazed to see
the real thing for the first time.
For her
her toy has grown into a giant.
Then she discovers double-deckers.
Counts: "One double-decker bus...two double-decker buses
...24 double decker buses!"
It is unbelievably so!
Doesn't know she is counting
the same bus twice!
And now to add to her
amazement she
encounters a green bus!
Will the excitement never end.
"The bus has changed its clothes?"
she says unsure that this can be so.
But now confounded by a bus
all in white!
Even we have never seen
a bus in white.
It looks like it has taken
all its clothes off.
A **** bus!
But to her it's worse
far worse than that!
"The bus has taken
it's skin off!"
She refuses to go on
this skinless bus.
We wait for a "normal"
bus to somehow appear.
And appear it does
busy being a red bus.
The world of buses
restored to its proper order.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
Have you ever made a pit stop on the road to success,
to just sit and marvel at the gifts of the ghetto?
Like the individually wrapped Treats that are left about.
have you seen the gum plastered across pavements,
the tagged up scenes...
all of these things.
The **** that people tend to turn their nose up to
is the most beautiful to me.
it reminds me of where I am and fuels me to reach for where I want to be.
Broken sidewalks, broken homes
babies out hustlin' to make their own.
For as long as I can remember,
this is all I've known
this is the land that I call home.
city buses and ratchet fights
****** scenes in broad daylight
beautiful ugliness at my eyesight
but it all pushes me to get it right.
Land of promises
Land of fame
home to Hollywood
and making a name
it is also home to heartache
and home of pain.
but if I must refrain..
If you make a pit stop on the road to success
and marvel at the ghetto
you'd realize you are blessed.
-ari b
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
If you had not cheated on mom and ******* up my mind with divorce.
If you still lived with mom and me you would know there's no school.
You would know snow stopped the buses so I'm stuck in the ****** house.
Mom is still on another all night date with like her million personals ad hookup.
My net fiance wants me to come on gaiaonline to practice for our honeymoon.
What to do when I don't like what he's typing or sexting?
Dad you called to bellow I am late for a school not in session.
Mom turned off her cell phone so she can be laid without me interrupting.
What to do when I don't like his sexting what he wants to do to my body.
Never had *** with anyone or had my body touched like he text to me.
Kids 9 years old are doing it and getting married on the net.
Easy when you got parents like mine who are dumb and care only about their lives.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
I don't believe in fairytales
it's really not my thing,
I've never told my children tales
of dragons and of kings.
We’ve watched some shows
on the T.V
of Rubbles and the Stones,
we watched them drive around their cars
of ***** rocks and bones.
I’ve read them poems
of ancient deeds,
they rode a trojan horse.
Those bards of old
could tell a tale,
words of truth of course.
We’ve sung our songs
of buses wheels,
and Irish unicorns,
but now we hear
the beating drum
marching until morn.
I don’t believe in fairytales,
it’s really not my thing,
I will not teach them, I’m too prim
they really are quite Grimm.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
Walt Whitman was a ******
That's what we say when we cross his bridge
from South Philly to Jersey
and see what he would see:
the river solid waveless with trees green around
feeding from the water on the left and far beyond
the watertable real for a minute from the arched metal
and the city visible wholly with warehouses rowhomes
inches apart and glass buildings and all burnt orange
by four o'clock sun but clear on blue sky
but you know he was a ******
and the city all one in your eye if you want it to be
and the languages together between the buildings
all the blacks asians whites itlalians irish polish
moving together and talking and eating the food
working and riding cars and buses around
the liberty bell and independence hall
it is brooklyn ferry it was his prophesy
but you know he was ******
a big jersey boy *** yea
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
Mami bus' great adventures...
Mami bus can carry it all!
Mami bus can not be anyone else...!
Who will come for you when you get stuck?
Who will take care of the lots of half-dead?
Who's the Hero of the buses, the greatest Queen?
Mami bus' great adventures...
Mami bus can carry it all!
Mami bus can not be anyone else...!
The bestest friend of the Concords!
The great life saver!
Hero of the heroes in the bus world!
Mami bus' great adventures...
Mami bus can carry it all!
Mami bus can not be anyone else...!
Trust me it'll be all good here,
When this bus gets back to Earth!
How many people are waiting for her?
Stuck in a bad world ajajajajaaaj!
Mami bus' great adventures,
Mami bus can carry it all,
Mami bus can not be anyone else!
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 9:28 AM UTC
"Found poem", all the text lifted from a tourist pamphlet picked up in Crete, only very slightly edited.
There are daily buses starting from Chania
to the head of the gorge,
which is called Xyloskalo.
Buses say on the front "Omalos" and depart
from the central bus station.
By taking any of the morning buses you get to Xyloskalo
after one and a half hours.
At Xyloskalo there is a tourist pavilion
where you can get meals, drinks,
and which has only seven beds for staying overnight.
For those wishing to spend the night
on the Omalos plateau
there is another possibility, that of staying
at Omalos village itself, five kilometres before Xyloskalo,
where are two cafés providing several beds. From there
you get any of the morning buses starting from Chania
to the head of the gorge.
The length of the gorge is sixteen kilometres, and you need
five to six hours to walk through it. There is plenty
of drinking water all along the gorge. Tennis shoes
or walking boots are recommended. Camping,
overnight staying, smoking, hunting,
cutting and uprooting plants
are forbidden.
At the mouth of the gorge is Aghia Rouméli village,
which provides restaurants and accommodation.
From there you take boats
either to Sfakía (duration: one hour) or to Soughia
and Paleochora.
Remember that the last boat to Sfakía is at 17 hours,
which connects with the last bus to Chania at 18 hours.
Duration of the bus trip: two hours.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
Sometimes
I feel a well
dug deep
into my heart
I try to stop it
but it quickly
becomes ocean
and overflows
into great tsunami
rises over all the levees
rushes past dams
breaks down tall
city structures,
edifices crumbling
in its path
all the squid and octopi
skitting forth
in wild pulses,
tentacles entangled
in doorways and rooves
slipping through narrow
window-openings
as they pour ink
in clouds,
shifting shapes
in cephalopod excitement
while blue whales
and humpbacks
breach over bridges,
phosphorescent jellies
light up
the dark streets of
my arteries
electric eels illuminate
the alleyways of
desolation's thick syrup
and I cannot stop it even
if I wanted to,
these darkened,
swirling waves
I am both floating and flying
like a jumping manta ray
curling around the ferries
bobbing in seahorse iridescence
weaving between buses
as if they were corals
And when the storm subsides,
colorful rockpools form,
rich in diversity
It is there,
in between the
multicolored ***** and
succulent shellfish,
in a mermaid's
voluptuous smile
and turquoise eye
that I see you,
so crystal clear
I could reach out
and bring you to me,
holding you tight
until the
gentle break
of
morning
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
7 o clock
passing through river indus
look out there
from the windows of bus
golden sun moving on the water
against the cool breeze run
every thing is going out my way
beautiful morning
silent and bare
the breeze is so busy it don't miss a tree
the indus highway is in its own sweet will
every eye was happy
the bell rang ....phone
first once , then twice then thrice
what happened
there is bomb in the university
what type of joke it is ?
its true !
what ?
yes
first my heart freezes
i was trying to hold my soul
there was a explosion in my heart
i asked myself
who you are?
really muslim ?
with strong faith ?
i was convincing myself yes you are a muslim
i have a deed of creed
my heart was tossed up
in the middle it burned me
are you alright ?
yes i am
that sun and wind become the point of fear
my voice was turning back to me in echos
in the huge traffic
blue buses
were grave for us
tell me who the hell is doing this
who is he to die me today
i curse to him in the worst places of hell
hey friend why are you going inside
stop please
for the sake of GOD lets go back home
no
why
because i came to read !
yes but
but many will cry ?
but then they will be silent !
come on
reject the call of terror
he is heart less man ?
what can he do with our lives !!
come on
tell him
we don't fear from him
he is the soul less hell
and we go
where the death stands
but thing i had seen today
everyone also passed through terror
HE WAS NOTHING
see me i am alive
GOD saved me
lets go on the top of highway today
i had also captured the picture of death today
it was a irritating ring
which was
repeatedly asking me "who are you "
" what do you do "
today the winds are blowing better then ever
come to read
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
Not eating chocolate covered cherries and strawberries and lychees and onions and chillies and grapes and marshmallows and turtle meat and cake and shark bones and oysters and camel and beef and beef with dog food and rabbit fur and smarties and skittles and twine and rope and yak and buses and buffalo and authors and novels and chipping containers and bicylces and emus and penguins and polar bear slippers and darned socks and stewed lobster and Darwin Deez and get well cards and ibuprofen tablets is fine with me.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
London City is the name of the game,
Where no two lives are ever the same.
Every corner Every turn,
Every young person will cause concern.
Life of crime or life of hate,
Watch your back on every estate.
Busy buses and busy streets,
Liars, Thieves, Haters and Cheats!
London City aint no Paradise,
Your luck can change when you roll the dice.
Take a step wrong or right,
No matter if you’re black or white.
Life is life and death is death,
Right down until your very last breath.
Fights and gangs, Knives and guns,
Cursing on daughters and curing on sons.
Using weapons small or big,
Whether you’re drunk or had a swig.
No matter what path you choose to go down,
London City is always your Home town!
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just "on spec", addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow".
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, ***** city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless ***** of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".
3.7k
In class the big black and white tick-tock pinched
my mid-morning belly. When everyone else
borrowed numbers, my pencil lead and yellow paint
scratched out hunger. Minutes chugged like school
buses. Even columns of three-numeraled numbers
minused the bottom line, scold of lunch.
A borrowed quarter and dime from the office,
meant a secretary’s red-lipsticked mouth, bent
and accusing. Her coiffed curls shook my dreams.
I would starve before sailing into that office
for my little belly, but forever yearned for the secretary
to pet my hair. Say, “There, there,”like to a character
in a book rosy with girls in gingham dresses.
But, for all those lovely boats of hot lunches: meatloaf
with crusts of catsup like a winter cap, buttered beans,
dinner rolls
and cold-cartoned milk, not watered down--
Missing lunch, I'd hide out in the cold storage
room of sack lunches next to the playground.
While the others ate, I'd escape at the right tick
into the recess of blacktop and tetherball.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC