The Bus The Bus

Listen to ole wives’ tales while wearing mother’s blood red gloves.
Patch up dreams with hope from ages past. 
The stars they will not fall today though their light may briefly dim.


I’ve got my heart on my sleeve…

The bus, the bus, I’m riding this Bus
and my pen gets to the page.
Coffee hot and shiny, sipped between radio calls
The driver more plump than the last time.


Tis cold, tis cold and my toes protest.
I alone sit across from “Flight” and “Vivamus mea Claudia”
– Poetry on the Way; I could do that I think and
scratch and scratch without glasses.


The sun beams and warms my face
How brilliant it peeks through highway trees
I am warmed, my card punched, my thoughts my own.


The Lamb of God the scripture read
This morning John proclaimed His right to praise and worship, adoration.
Fear not, for I am with thee – even to the ends of the earth.


I know, I know – not because the Bible tells me.
I know because the sun warms my face and the  bus ride is short
and I write.


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