Poetry Here (Mostly)

Posts tagged ‘bus’

Way to Go

You visited the city

where I have long resided,

not so easy getting ‘round,

neither one of us can drive.


First strolled through my neighborhood,

showed you all the grocery stores,

then, together, walked my dog,

obviously, you wanted more.


Had to visit those locales

in your glossy bright brochure,

places tourists must not miss,

I’d forgotten their allure.


We took the number 7

through areas of working class

high school kids, screaming babies,

long ride, bus did not go fast.


But, the Park destination,

wild woods and cultivation,

peace of Japanese gardens,

surpassed your expectations.


Handy to have a senior’s

pass, good for the trolley too,

Little Italy, Hillcrest,

we could have gone to the Zoo.


35 to Ocean Beach,

then to the Reservation

had mountain view, big buffet,

and blackjack conversation.


You’re home from your holiday,

happy for our excursions,

I’m glad getting where we went

worth effort of exertion.


Bells (#237)

The sizzling boulevard climbed and where

it daled, I waited for a downtown 1.

Shielded by beige hat and cheap sunglasses,

I unfolded my number’s bus schedule,

read, folded, then unfolded it again,

took refuge in its printed promises.


Mad dragon, August, unreasonably

blasted the bus stop’s bench un-seatable.

No oasis in the desert blue sky,

but in cement-rooted neighborhood,

a maturing tree in a square-cut bed

cast a small shadow over the sidewalk.


A younger woman and I shared thin shade,

communicated with our quiet smiles.

Blessed Sacrament bells soon counted ten.

Steepled keepers of our precious hours,

ringing time awakened our memories.

Her voice tolled with childhood recollections.


“In my country, I grew up on a farm

where only the village church bells kept us

informed of the day’s hourly progress.

A clock was a rich person’s luxury,

but the bells were enough for most of us,

they used to tell me when to go to school.”


I chimed in about Sundays in Brooklyn

when insistent bells commanded our Mass

attendance, early, mid-morning, or late.

Then, services and priests were plentiful

and Catholics feared and felt obligated

to obey our so-called Mother, the Church.


The bus came after we’d exchanged stories.

One after the other we showed passes

that passengers, who ride often, purchase.

Then, as if we’d had no conversation,

and bells had not rung in old times, we sat

ourselves apart and never spoke again.

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